


my fiction beats the hell out of my truth

by amorremanet



Series: a gnawing feeling leaves you quite unsure [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cross-Generational Friendship, Drinking Games, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Gay Disaster Iverson (Voltron), Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Intoxication, Iverson & his future husband have a 10-year age gap, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mental Health Issues, Non-Linear Narrative, Old Married Couple, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Iverson (Voltron), Past Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Past Sendak/Shiro (Voltron), Paternal Iverson (Voltron), Period Typical Attitudes, Queer Themes, Recovery, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sobriety, Substance Abuse, but there are two interwoven stories here, idk tagging narrative styles is hard, like everything is in chronological order, one is Iverson and his husband's romance, the other is Iverson getting to know Shiro, twinganes, ………kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 18:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17065163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: It’s the autumn of 1990 when Lt. Colonel Mitchell Iverson—aged thirty-five, formerly of Lawrence, Kansas and the US Army—first shares drinks with Bennett Martínez, a feisty, young reporter and queer activist. Neither of them plans to fall in love. Surely, Mitch has too much damage and baggage for someone like Bennett, who must have something broken in him, with all the men who’ve said that he’s too much.Yet, as time goes by and they grow closer, Mitch and Bennett find in each other unexpected balance and belonging.It’s the autumn of 2013 when Dr. Mitchell Iverson—aged fifty-eight, of Kaltenecker University’s physics department—first meets Takashi Shirogane, twin to one of Mitch’s grad students and currently a fucking mess. Fresh out of rehab and an abusive relationship, struggling with sobriety and an eating disorder, Shiro wants to get well without addressing all the reasons why he isn’t. For his own part, Mitch wants to help, but he’s definitely only looking to be a friend, not to go adopting anybody.Either way, things would be easier if Shiro would open up or else stop being interesting. Since he won’t do the latter, though, Mitch will need to get creative about getting to know him.





	my fiction beats the hell out of my truth

**Author's Note:**

> me: *has a million projects to work on already*
> 
> gremlin brain: “Okay, but Mitch and Bennett. Also, Mitch and Shiro. You know what I mean.”
> 
> me: “This sounds responsible, please go on.”
> 
> So, this is more self-indulgent backstory for _**[But boys spring infernal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717574)**_ , my overgrown monster of a Sheith fic. Being yet another installment in that series, it is part of a story that is endgame Sheith—but at this point in the timeline, Shiro still believes that he’s never going to see Keith again, much less get a chance to make amends for how things went between them in Chicago, while Shiro was in both the deepest throes of his substance abuse and an abusive relationship with Sendak.
> 
> Also, the “historical” part of this AU is that Mitch and Bennett fall in love during the early 1990’s, and I put some of my fondness for studying history to work in developing parts of their love story.
> 
> Since I started writing this verse after season three, there’s a lot from later seasons that isn’t going to be adapted into this AU. For example, the only thing that’s coming from season eight is that Iverson is a dog person and had a doggo named Old Sally. One of the things that’s coming from season seven is Adam, who will make his first appearance in chapter two, along with at least Lance and Lotor. Chapter two will also feature some background/minor instances of Lotor/Shiro, Adam/Shiro, and Shiro/OMC.
> 
> Anyway, the point is that I had this idea about Iverson, his husband, and Shiro, and it wouldn’t go away, so I decided to do a thing.
> 
> Title lovingly stolen from Jawbreaker’s song, “Kiss the Bottle.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mitchell Iverson meets the young man who will become his husband, and twenty-three years later, meets the young man who will eventually become something like his son.

Once upon a time in Pasadena, California, after six weeks of internal debate and two preemptive shots of Jameson, Mitch found his way to a hole in the wall called Davey’s. Wearing a black leather jacket and corpse-stiff jeans, he walked up and down the block outside the entrance a good four times. Each time he passed by, Mitch felt his pulse in his throat, felt something writhing in his chest like, _“What if, what if, what if?”_ —as if Mitch hadn’t asked himself enough of those questions since moving out here over the summer.

In the alley between Davey’s and what seemed to be a florist’s shop, Mitch leaned against a cold brick wall and told himself to breathe. Closing his remaining good eye, he adjusted his black beret, worried his calloused fingers over the heavy fabric. He’d bought the cap on a wild impulse, at an out-of-the-way little place a few blocks from CalTech’s campus, shortly after his first day as Dr. North’s research assistant. Before heading out tonight, he’d listened to another impulse and thrown on his beret. Not to cover his head—because Mitch had shaved his hair off, rather than losing it—but to create what his sister Nora might have called, _“a look.”_

The beret, Mitch had decided, made him seem cool. Maybe artistic, maybe cultured, maybe like he’d lost his left eye in an accident with a falling encyclopedia or scuffling over a rare prize at Manhattan’s Oscar Wilde Memorial Bookshop. Definitely not like he had a Bachelor of Science in physics from West Point and work at the lab, come tomorrow morning. Thinking about that made his head spin, made his stomach lurch like maybe he should’ve skulked back to his apartment and hidden there, as if he could’ve outrun the truth of himself. As if that had, so far, worked out better than trying to dodge the shrapnel that’d claimed his left eye in Panama City.

It was a cool Tuesday evening in the middle of September, 1990, and, holding a deep breath and closing his eye, Lt. Colonel Mitchell Iverson, aged thirty-five and formerly of the US Army, crossed the threshold into his first gay bar.

Once inside, he nearly tripped over his own feet. As he cast his gaze around the dusky room, Mitch couldn’t spot hide or hair of anything that he’d been warned about, whether by folks in his parents’ old neighborhood in Lawrence, Kansas, or by any of his old squadmates, during his just-over sixteen years in the service. He’d heard whispered horror stories about monstrous, perverted queers and the twisted things they did with each other in the enclaves of their filthy, cum-stained nightclubs—but the people at Davey’s wouldn’t have been out-of-place at Ma and Pop’s Methodist church, aside from how many of them looked white.

Plush booths lined the walls, most of them populated by small groups of men with well-kept haircuts and faces that Mitch couldn’t have picked out from each other to save his sisters’ lives. Around the floor sat a scattering of high tables with tall chairs, no more than five at any of them, and a handful of younger bucks in tight t-shirts came and went, carrying trays with cocktails and wine glasses. A few patrons were women, and most of the gals huddled together in one of the larger booths. Some were slim and feminine but not dainty, wearing black dresses and high heels, made up like vintage movie vixens. Others had broad shoulders and thick arms, cropped haircuts, and a uniform of heavy work-boots with black button-up shirts. The bar and her crowd could’ve been painted by Edward Hopper; it wouldn’t have felt out-of-place anywhere in Kansas.

Only the music stood out to Mitch as something different from what the bars back home could’ve offered. Just off the room’s center sat a baby-grand piano, its player drowned and glistening in a single, unforgiving spotlight. Cherubic and cherry-cheeked, with sweat pooling dark on his white button-up, he sang along with his tinkling ivories, _“It’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s de-lovely. You can tell at a glance what a swell night this is for romance…”_

Almost made Mitch smile, hearing this song as he moseyed toward the bar. Nora and their Ma had been fond of it for as long as he could remember. The pianist couldn’t hold a candle to Ms. Ella Fitzgerald—certainly not with his nasally drawl and the rickety timbre of his voice—but if Mitch focused on the jangly, mid-tempo tune, it felt like wandering into Ma’s sitting-room. Her nerves had gotten worse since burying Pop last year, three weeks after Mitch’s promotion and two months before his deployment with Operation Just Cause. She kept her lights turned down low and maintained an endless supply of mint juleps, more so than she’d done before. After all, life’s edges overwhelmed her so easily and it was always five o’clock somewhere.

Claiming one of the empty stools, Mitch reminded himself that he could slink back to his apartment if this experiment went south. Nobody here knew who he was. Barely anyone knew his name at all, outside the physics department. He wouldn’t crawl back to straight bars, but if worse came to worst, he could take Ma’s lifelong advice and drink at home.

Ordering a whiskey-cola from a barkeep with heavily lidded eyes and a jaw like a cinder-block, Mitch told himself to keep breathing. In and out, finding air through the cigarette smoke. He wasn’t doomed, nor was this little adventure. Before his honorable discharge, he’d earned himself five Purple Hearts, three commendations for acts of heroism, and a Silver Star. Since then, he’d kept himself in shape; his olive green tee stretched tight on a taut, muscular stomach and a firm chest. He wasn’t the best-looking guy in town—realistically, he doubted that he could crack the top twenty, even helped by alcoholic social lubrication—but come Hell, high water, or the reincarnation of James Dean, Mitch would do all right for himself.

Curling thick, brown fingers around a cool glass, he cast long glances up and down the bar. As he took a long sip of his drink, he dragged his gaze over the strangers all around him, nerves thrashing with fears that would prove baseless. No one judged Mitch, found him lacking, or deemed him insufficiently queer, unworthy of sitting where he was. Nobody pointed fingers at him or leapt from their seats to decry Mitch as heretic, hypocrite, or coward for waiting so long to join his own kind. None of the other patrons shouted to the heavens that he had no right to see the huge plastic bowls of condom at both ends of the bar, much less reap the benefits of having so many rubbers freely available.

Hell, most of the other patrons didn’t notice Mitch at all. Some whispered amongst themselves in clutches of two or three, swept up in their own conversations, inaudible aside from the low, apian buzz caused by so many of them carrying on at once. Certain lone wolves bowed their heads and stared long into whatever sam hecking abyssal depths they had in their glasses. Even with the better lighting over the bar, Mitch couldn’t tell much about most of them, only that nobody seemed interested in him. Soon enough, Mitch found himself with another drink and still no one but the bartender paying him any mind. 

Until, gunshot-sudden, somebody a few stools down flashed a smile at Mitch and winked.

Hiding behind his glass, Mitch whipped away too quickly to get a good look at whoever this was. His head spun as he faced the mural painted on the wall behind the bar. His hands trembled like they’d never done while holding a rifle or a sidearm. Heat flooded his face, twisted through the pit of his stomach. Hunched onto his elbows, he told himself to look back at whoever had deigned to acknowledge him. If nothing else, he could get a fix on whether or not he’d imagined the flirtatious edge.

For all he steeled himself, Mitch could only call three words to mind as he soaked up the tall drink of water who’d glanced his way: _Oh, good goddamn_. They did not, as far as Mitch had ever known, make guys so fine as this in Kansas.

Whoever the unreasonably good-looking stranger was, Mitch didn’t want to look away from him. He was darker than every other patron seemed, but through the dim of the bar, Mitch couldn’t decide heads or tails else about his maybe-admirer’s skin. He also couldn’t figure how this guy had gotten those long legs into his low-slung jeans; even faded with a patched-up knee, they clung to his thighs like they’d been painted on. But Mitch _could_ pick out a haphazard ponytail, as if the guy scooped his black hair up and only brushed his fingers through it once. Under a black leather bomber jacket, a loose white t-shirt teased at a trim waist and hips that deserved to have somebody holding them.

At that thought, something welled up in Mitch’s throat. Something cold and heavy plummeted to the pit of his stomach. In all likelihood, there already was a Mr. Handsome Bar-Guy floating around somewhere. Considering the man’s diamond-hewn cheekbones and movie star jawline, he no doubt had a slew of gentleman callers and would-be boyfriends chasing after him, all politely rebuffed and eventually foiled by the love of his life, whoever that lucky bastard was. You had to be careful, meeting beautiful people in bars, because the best men were always taken—or so Nora had advised her older brother while helping him with the move out west.

Yet, this guy kept looking Mitch’s way as if checking out an exhibit at an art museum—so, maybe, just this once, one of the good ones was free to ogle. Behind the rim of his glass, the guy’s lips curled up into a smoky grin. As Mitch fumbled with his own drink, his heart banged so hard, he couldn’t believe no one threw him out. Wasn’t he ruining the music for everyone else, with his pulse carrying on so loudly? Surely, he must’ve been—but kneading his front teeth over his lip, Mitch put on a smile of his own and nodded.

The guy did not smile back. Instead, his mouth fell open and he tensed like Caliban whenever Ma’s squashed-face hellion of a cat had to share a room with Mitch. Blinking vacantly, the guy gulped, fumbled at his glass without picking it up. Trembling, he glanced at a nearby high-top table, where an older, haggard pair leaned together and rubbernecked like they had third-row center tickets to a train-wreck. Whatever was going on between those three, the guy turned back to Mitch. His whole face lit up and God, Mitch’s lungs did more backflips than a Soviet Olympic gymnast. 

Until the guy’s hand whacked into his glass and sent it toppling over. He flinched as his drink splashed down his chest and stomach.

As the glass shattered on the floor, Mitch’s eye threatened to pop out of his head. Not two minutes ago, this other guy had been all smiles and grace and an eager sort of energy—had Mitch done something wrong? Anything to make this handsome stranger fall apart?

In a flash, the bar went graveyard silent. Even the pianist stumbled to a halt, his singing cut short before his fingers hopped off the keys. Gazes from all directions zeroed in on the guy Mitch had been smiling at, and Mitch choked down a shiver, certain he felt some people staring at him as well. Gooseflesh cropped up on his arms as he locked eyes with his handsome stranger.

God, maybe Mitch needed to step up? His cheeks were warm, his chest felt tight and flushed and inexplicably quite pink, and he fought his lungs about each breath—but he could’ve gone over to the other stool, right? Did he owe that to the guy who’d made him blush like this?

Mitch didn’t get the chance to fully think about it, much less ask. Cringing, groaning, the guy shoved back from the bar.

While he stormed back to the men’s room, one of the older men he’d looked to previously chuckled, gave a fond shake of his head. Clear as day, Mitch heard him tell his companion, “Oh, dear. Bennett’s found somebody new.”

Rolling his eye and sighing, Mitch turned away from them and downed his second ever drink inside a gay bar. Without missing a beat, he ordered up a third—double-whiskey, this time, hold the Coke. Trying not to think about the handsome stranger—Bennett, apparently?—or his ruined shirt, Mitch bobbed one foot in time as the pianist picked up singing where he’d left off: “ _In case you shake apart and want a brand new start to do! That! Jazz!…_ ”

  


* * *

  


It’s a cool morning in the middle of September, 2013, when a student knocks on the door to Dr. Mitchell Iverson’s office at Kaltenecker University. Despite getting invited in, Ryou Shirogane hovers in the threshold, fidgeting with the hem of his steel gray t-shirt and struggling to catch a breath. Aged twenty-three, he has a grown man’s broad shoulders, childishly chubby cheeks, and a sudden inability to look anywhere in the vicinity of his faculty advisor’s face.

Arching the brow over his good eye, Mitch folds up the lesson plan he’s reviewing for this afternoon. Seeking anything that might break up the sudden tension, he zeroes in on the blocky, crimson insignia stretched out over Ryou’s chest: _M.I.T._

He deadpans, “You oughta know better than to wear a shirt like that around here.”

Ryou frowns as though he could faint at any second. “…Sir?”

By way of explanation, Mitch pats the stuffed toy beaver sitting by the edge of his desk, facing the door. Why Nora thought it necessary to include the thing in Mitch’s last birthday present, he has no idea. The beaver’s little orange t-shirt helps, though, with stark white, screenprinted letters spelling out, _“CALIFORNIA INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY.”_

Mitch sighs and hopes that it sounds sympathetic. “It’s a joke, Ryou. I do make those, from time to time. Because of our alma maters’ rivalry.” While his poor, bemused doctoral student mulls that statement over, Mitch gestures at the seat opposite him. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s personal, I—not that I want to waste your time, but—but it’s a personal thing that I’m—” Inhaling sharply, Ryou yanks pudgy fingers through his short, black hair. The color drains from his tawny cheeks; it might be a damn miracle that he doesn’t vomit on Mitch’s carpet. “I know it’s the start of a new semester, sir? And I swear, I’m not trying to dismiss, or like—it isn’t that I’m not—I take all of this seriously, everything about—with my studies and classes, I mean—”

“Anybody who’d say otherwise would lose their right to say anything about you—”

“But I can’t, sir, I? I need to not be here, next week. If that’s okay.”

“Well, it _might_ be okay.” Wrinkling his nose bemusedly, Mitch wheels his ergonomic chair toward his desk. His round, heavy stomach bumps into the edge, but he stifles his unhelpful urge to grumble about it. “Why don’t you close the door and sit down.”

Ryou furrows his brow. He tilts his head like an owl who can’t make heads or tails of what’s happening—and most wouldn’t blame him. Although Mitch has “open office hours” posted on his door and the physics department’s bulletin board, he doesn’t often welcome students into his domain quite like this. Popular wisdom holds that Mitch only makes token nods toward offering guidance because his position requires them. Upperclassmen and some of the graduate students caution younger students against bothering Mitch as if warning them about a dragon.

Never mind how Mitch makes efforts not to schedule meetings during these hours. Ignore the fact that he never turns students away. Faced with what Bennett calls his gravitas, even Mitch’s more level-headed students can end up ghostly shades of pale, fumbling over words like they’ve had their brains replaced with yappy purse-dogs.

“But… I don’t have an appointment?” As soon as he spits this out, Ryou flinches. When nothing comes for him, his eyes dart over every corner, like he’s searching for the hidden camera crew. “Not that I—it wasn’t—I didn’t mean disrespect by showing up like this? Something came up—”

“And I want to talk to you about it.” Again, Mitch nods toward the chair. “Close the door and come. Sit. Down.”

Swallowing thickly, Ryou finally does as he’s told. Keeping his breaths measured, Mitch tells himself to accept this progress and keep moving slowly. He folds his hands on the desk, out in the open where Ryou can see them and understand that his professor doesn’t want to harm him. Fighting down a sigh, lest it give Ryou ideas that he’s unwelcome or a burden, Mitch can’t spot any details that give away what’s bothering Ryou. All Mitch sees in the boy’s bouncing knee, hunched shoulders, and jittery hands, is further confirmation that he needs to handle this conversation more carefully than Ma’s antique lace tablecloth.

Fortunately, Ryou plucks up enough nerve to tell Mitch, “Before I say anything else? What came up, it’s about my brother—my Kashi, my twin, he’s? He knows I’m talking to you, and he _told me_ to tell you everything? So, I’m not breaking a confidence? About stuff that’s not mine to share?”

“Duly noted.” Mitch purses his lips, because even a sympathetic smile might not help. “What’s going on with your brother?”

Worrying his hand through his hair again, Ryou takes a moment to breathe. “About five years ago, when we were eighteen? Kashi started seeing this guy—this _man_ , Maurice. Lawyer, old enough to be our father, real piece of work. Aside from his partner, I guess he likes his guys younger, and he took a serious shine to my brother.”

Mitch clenches his hands around each other. Digging his fingertips into his knuckles, he forces his face into a mask of neutrality. Already, this explanation makes him want to deck somebody, preferably the man who’s been screwing around with Ryou’s brother.

“This is the bad sort of shine, too. Really bad. And it’s worse with Kashi because—just—bless his heart? He doesn’t always…” With a rueful grimace, Ryou sighs. “It’s not like we don’t have anyone else, either? But Dad’s sister, her wife, and our cousins are in California. Mom’s family is in Kyoto. And he’s my _only_ brother, right? He’s always been there for me, but he’s so goddamn _stubborn_ about accepting—about letting anybody _help_ —”

“So, you’ve gotta be there for him.” Mitch slouches onto his elbows, hoping this shift in posture makes him less intimidating. It damn well better. Sitting like this kneads his belly against the desk too much for Mitch to ignore. So much for dieting. “What’d this real piece of work do? As much as you want to tell me.”

“Since April, he’s been keeping Kashi at his townhouse, with him and his partner. Before that, Kashi tried to break up with him, I don’t know how many times. But whenever he went, ‘I can’t take it, he won’t let me live, he’s jealous, he’s controlling, he’s awful, I’m leaving him’?” Ryou shrugs, sinking in his seat. “Every time, Maurice won him back. I don’t know all of what’s gone on or everything he’s done to Kashi—”

 _But you probably don’t_ ** _want_** _to know all of it_ , Mitch doesn’t point out, because it wouldn’t help. In all likelihood, Ryou already knows this better than Mitch.

“But he and his partner just left Kashi alone for a long weekend. His old roommate’s helping sneak him out of Chicago. I’m supposed to meet them in Milwaukee, then Aunt Satomi’s on her way too, and I…” Groaning softly, Ryou shakes his head. “I’m not saying Maurice is Kashi’s only problem, God knows that he isn’t? Everything’s kind of a mess—kind of a huge mess. Even if I don’t get what I really want, though, getting him away from that _bastard_ is a start, at least? And I need to be there for him.”

One particular phrase makes Mitch frown. “What is that? What you really wanna get from this.” 

“Sir, I haven’t seen Kashi sober since we were seventeen. I don’t—I know he won’t go gentle about any of this, he _never does._ I know he’s gonna give me Hell. Maybe he won’t accept _rehab_ , like I want, but I…” Grey eyes glistening, Ryou lets slip a tight, throaty noise. “I need to talk him into getting help, sir. He’s going to die if he doesn’t, and I can’t lose him. I can’t—”

“Talk to Lauren before you leave, all right? Make sure she can get you notes about what you’ll miss.” Mitch gives Ryou a brief nod. “I’ll send you my PowerPoints for next week’s classes, but you know how unexpected things can come up in discussions. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Out of Mitch’s grad students, Lauren ties with Ryou for the best note-taker position. Diligence like theirs comes along so rarely; it’s why Mitch wanted them for his two TA spots. Since this confirmation should clear everything up and get Ryou on his way to Wisconsin, Mitch reaches for his lesson plan.

He drops it again when Ryou splutters, “Sir, I—I’m sorry, but… Seriously? It’s just… that easy?”

“It is just that easy.”

“No disrespect, but… I stormed into your office. Told you my brother’s getting away from an abusive monster and I need to talk him into rehab, and you just… _believe_ me? No questions asked? You don’t need proof or, like, _anything_?”

Mitch could match Ryou’s explanation for detail. As he fumbles in his hip pocket, Mitch wonders if he shouldn’t try.

Instead of wasting precious time, Mitch takes out a small medallion and hands it over. The compressed aluminum is painted hot pink, with golden accents that, in Bennett’s opinion, make the token look gaudy. One of the coin’s faces has the serenity prayer carved into it— _“God grant me serenity to accept things I cannot change, courage to change things I can, and wisdom to know the difference”_ —while the other has a raised Roman numeral in the center. Surrounding Mitch’s _“X”_ are the words, _“unity,” “service,”_ and, _“recovery.”_

Boggling, Ryou flaps his mouth like a dying fish. “Is this a—sir, are you—”

“Ten years sober. It’ll be eleven, next January.” Mitch fixes his good eye on Ryou. “Whatever happens, I’m not gonna judge your brother. That’s not my place, or my right. Besides,” he adds, gently but without lowering his voice, “sobriety’s hard enough on its own. Neither of you is gonna need me making it worse.”

Handing back the chip, Ryou nods in understanding. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t need to thank me.” Nodding at the door, Mitch tells the kid, “Go be with your brother.”

  


* * *

  


Nursing his double-whiskey, Mitch hummed, pondered what to do with himself. As easily as Davey’s went down, relative to what he’d planned for, the somber crowd left one particular, glaring something to be desired. Namely: they made for pretty lonely company. Horny hustlers and go-go boys in skin-tight shorts, Mitch felt certain, would’ve spoken to him, rather than leaving him alone and adrift in unfamiliar waters. Perhaps Mitch would’ve choked on his own tongue, but at least he wouldn’t have wondered if the other patrons could smell the closet’s telltale stink all over him.

If not that, then maybe Mitch’s loneliness had something to do with the music. Sure enough, Mitch recognized most of the tunes. He could bob his head or foot or knee in time. But he’d learned them from Ma’s old records, sinking into the overly plush cushions on her sofa. Scraping calloused fingertips along their fraying, off-pink covers, he’d listened to her droning along with so many songs, like the one that the pianist started next: _“What good is sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play. Life is a cabaret, old chum…”_

The whiskey stung, but didn’t drown out Mitch’s thoughts or stop him from replaying one of the last pieces of so-called advice that Ma had given him before his move: _“Be careful, Mitchell. Whatever you do, stay away from San Francisco, and avoid the wrong places in Hollywood. One slip-up on your part will be more than enough for those depraved, nasty men to pervert and corrupt you. I know that you’re strong—your father and I raised you right—but I worry about you. After all, I’ve got six of you babies, but only one son.…”_

Perhaps all the other queers at Davey’s could tell that something wasn’t right with Mitch. Perhaps he didn’t belong here any more than he’d ever belonged at straight bars. Bowing his head, Mitch grimaced at the bottom of his glass, at what remained of his drink. Hell, maybe he only needed to finish up, pay his tab, and head back to his own place, where he could drink with less in the way of disappointment. Seemed like the best way to make anything good out of the rest of his evening.

But as Mitch looked for the barkeep, someone gave him a pat between the shoulder-blades. “So, I think we need to take this from the top? Do it over, I mean. This, uh—I guess you could call it an introduction?”

A chill dropped into Mitch’s stomach, but he could’ve sworn his face caught fire. Holding a deep breath, he turned on his stool. Swallowing a heavy sigh, Mitch blinked up at his handsome stranger—Bennett, according to those older guys. He about choked, staring down a smile powerful enough to strangle the life out of a full-grown grizzly.

Before Mitch or his higher brain could think better of anything, he nodded his permission for the guy to come sit beside him, then wrinkled his nose. Not only had the other man cleaned himself up, but he’d also changed his shirt. Took Mitch a moment to notice, as this guy had slipped into another tight tee—also white with scattered stains—but Handsome Bar Guy Who Was Maybe Named Bennett lacked any lingering evidence of the drink he’d splashed on himself.

“I don’t mean any disrespect, but…” Mitch gestured at the other man’s chest. “You aren’t a magician, are you?”

“Not that I know of, since I think I’d remember studying something like that, but?” Tossing long, black bangs off his face, the guy flashed Mitch a grin. “I have been told that some of my unique skills and talents, uh? I guess people say that they defy any rational explanation? Except for, _‘Maybe they’re really magic, who knows.’_ ”

He trilled the last bit, sing-songing in a way that clearly meant something to him.

Recognizing exactly none of the significance, all Mitch could do was shrug. “You’ll probably hate me before too long, then.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I make it a point of principle to never hate a handsome guy with nice hands.”

“I’m in science, though. Part of our business is disproving anything magical. Picking it all apart until the spell’s just broken.”

“I bet that I could make a believer out of you.”

“Ain’t nothing that I can’t hit with the scientific method and render unmiraculous. All I want to say is, Gorgeous?” Smirking, Mitch listened to an impulse that begged him to lean in closer. “Don’t go making promises like that unless you’re gonna work to keep them.”

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t the truest thing that Mitch had ever said. At sufficiently advanced levels, like the ones he’d pursue as soon as he could start working on his PhD, physics inevitably regained the mystique that people thought scientists irrevocably stripped away. Besides that, most of the men in here likely would’ve had no trouble surpassing any of his expectations, once they’d hypothetically made it into bed together.

On the other hand, with that quip alone, Mitch had made Bennett-Apparently’s eyebrows arch and gotten something to spark up in those big, brown eyes. Idly rubbing at his empty glass, he needed to pull this thread, needed to see where he and Bennett could take things.

Except Mitch didn’t have a map for how anything like this could’ve gone. The whiskey hummed in his veins, low and warm and pretending that he could accomplish anything. No matter how this conversation went—no matter how Bennett reacted or didn’t to Mitch smirking and leaning toward his personal space—Mitch had his liquid safety-net. Tonight didn’t need to end how it might’ve done, had Mitch still been in the service. No one wanted to catch him out here, nor had any reason to care where he’d come or why or what he wanted with Bennett. Nobody stood to gain anything from outing a CalTech research assistant who hoped to start his PhD next year.

Contrariwise, Mitch would lose nothing by turning toward Bennett, meeting him as he angled himself toward Mitch. Conspiratorially close, he got near enough that Mitch could almost hear each individual breath. God, kissing Bennett would’ve been so easy. Probably rude, though. Jumping right into that without any indication that Bennett really wanted it. Maybe the bar even had rules against kissing in the open. True, it would’ve been _odd_ for them to do so—but maybe other bars did the same sort of thing; Mitch didn’t rightly know.

He couldn’t dwell on it, though. Not with Bennett sitting there, slipping into a smile like a Cheshire cat’s. He propped one cheek in his palm, traced his eyes up and down Mitch’s body, and didn’t splat on his face. If spilling a drink down his front was a sign that he’d taken an interest in someone, the way that his maybe-friends had said, then maybe this sudden ease—

Interrupting Mitch’s thoughts, Bennett chuckled like pages rustling in an archive. “So, do they have names where you come from—”

“Why do I need to come from anywhere—”

“—or should I just call you ‘Prince Charming’?”

Cheeks flushing hotter than a kiln, Mitch ducked his chin. “I prefer ‘Mitch.’ Well, Mitchell. Iverson. But really, ‘Mitch’ is fine.”

“Martínez.” Holding out his hand, he flashed a grin and bared his oversized front teeth. “Bennett Martínez. And last I checked, everybody comes from somewhere.”

“Shows what you know. Maybe I sprang up, fully formed, from one of the physics labs at CalTech.” Mitch nudged his beret back, away from his face. He couldn’t help smiling at the glimmer that he’d put in Bennett’s eyes, all by misappropriating one of Nora’s favorites Greco-Roman myths. “Or maybe I just wanna make you work for my whole life story.”

“Lucky me. I _love_ a challenge.”

“I’ll try my best, then. To be extra-challenging, I mean.”

“A man after my own heart.” He snickered as Mitch buried himself in his drink, as if a hearty sip of whiskey would keep Bennett from spotting how he’d blushed. “I notice that you didn’t completely object to being called ‘Prince Charming,’ though.”

“I really do prefer ‘Mitch.’”

“‘Prince Mitch the Difficult But Charming’?”

Inhaling sharply, Mitch searched for the barkeep—and found nothing. “So, where did you say _you’re_ from, then?”

“Well, actually, I _didn’t_ say, but?” Smiling playfully, Bennett batted his boot at Mitch’s ankle. “Most recently, _The Pasadena Star-News_ and _The Advocate_ , over in LA. Before I got down here, _The San Francisco Chronicle_ , with moonlight gigs at _The Bay Area Reporter_ and _Homocore_. Before that, _The San Francisco Sentinel_. And before that, the communications department at the University of San Francisco.”

Vaguely, Mitch wanted to ask who or what a _Homocore_ was.

Instead, he wrinkled his nose. “Aren’t you a bit young to be a professor?”

Which gave Bennett pause, but at least it didn’t make him pull away.

Still wasn’t the reaction that Mitch had hoped for, though. Bennett gaped at him in what would’ve been silence, if not for the buzz of whispered conversations all over the bar. He tilted his head. Furrowed his brow, narrowed his eyes like he was trying to read something without glasses. Through the comfortable din, a lilting melody rose up, with the pianist drawling, _“You go to my head and you linger like a haunting refrain, and I find you spinning ‘round in my brain…”_

Then, Bennett snorted. This quickly gave way to more chuckling. And another, and another, and another. He covered his mouth but couldn’t hide the giggles that burst forth like the pent-up bubbles in a champagne bottle.

Laughter seized him before the pianist got halfway through his second verse. Crashing out of Bennett, his laughs echoed off the walls and ceiling. The pianist stopped playing. Once again, the rest of the patrons hushed. Gooseflesh pricked up on Mitch’s forearms and the back of his neck. In one go, he threw back the rest of his whiskey, but it didn’t take the edge off what was going on. Here, Mitch had tried to compliment somebody—he’d tried to be _nice_ , instead of how he’d treated the guys he’d screwed around with previously, while still closeted and on the US military’s leash—and all this attempt at kindness had gotten him, was stared at by a coterie of strange, predominantly white men who he didn’t know.

Well, that and Bennett’s raucous, whooping laughter. It would’ve sounded beautiful, if he’d been having this fun over something other than Mitch’s so-called flirting. All sunlight-bright and warm—Jesus, Mitch wanted to hear more of it, wanted to be anywhere else but here and making Bennett laugh on purpose.

But Bennett doubled over before Mitch could propose getting out of here. Face-first, Bennett smacked into the bar with a dull thud. Must not have hurt too much or rattled him, with the way he kept going. Even so, it made Mitch squirm in his seat.

Huffing, he slouched onto his elbows and let his head hang. “Didn’t mean to offend you,” he mumbled to the bottom of his empty glass.

“You _didn’t_ , I just—” Bennett gasped, desperate for breath. His words had a cracking sound, like he could either keep laughing or start crying. Digging his knuckles at the bar, he fought the laughter down, struggled to take deeper breaths— “Not that my Dad doesn’t _wish_ I were a professor—”

“Yeah, well, my Pop used to wish I’d make four-star General—”

“—and I _could’ve_ been one. I started early. Won a full ride. Could’ve gone to grad school and—”

“Still, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to, I don’t know? Whatever I…”

He trailed off, blinking as Bennett sat upright again. Managing that wouldn’t have shocked Mitch too badly. Stray giggles kept slipping out of Bennett, despite his best efforts to contain them. Dragging himself up like this must have meant that Bennett had an indomitable spirit. But with the soft, dewy expression that his face melted into, looking at him kicked Mitch square in the chest. His heart stuttered like a dying engine. The gleam in Bennett’s eyes screamed wonder, rather than mischief, and Mitch’s breath caught in his throat.

“Nobody’s mistaken me for an off-duty professor before.” Bennett smiled ruefully. “Most people I meet guess gang member.”

Hearing that, Mitch ground his teeth against each other. He nodded, trying not to look anywhere else but Bennett, lest one of the other patrons get the wrong idea. Worse than that, _Bennett_ could have gotten the wrong idea—and so help him, Mitch could not let that happen.

“People love the throw that assumption around, don’t they.” With a stiff quirk of the shoulders, Mitch drummed his fingers against his glass. “But you were talking about places you’ve _worked_ before. So, when you brought up USF…”

Wilting under Bennett’s intense look, Mitch kneaded at the back of his neck. For all he tried to keep looking in Bennett’s direction, Mitch’s insides started squirming, just because he tried to meet his beautiful stranger’s gaze. Mitch’s stomach reeled, threatening to crawl up his throat. Glancing around the room, he saw the pianist downing a glass of water. Over at their table, Bennett’s maybe-friends rubbernecked like spectators at a car-wreck. Damn everyone who wanted to spy on this, Mitch had to try and focus back on Bennett, right? That would’ve been the polite thing to do.

Yet, as he forced himself to take a deep breath, as he rubbed his neck and tried to smile, Mitch knocked his cap clean off his head.

Bennett caught it without missing a beat. “Glad you took this off. I wanted to know what you were hiding.”

“I mean? I’m used to keeping my hair short. Easier for working at the lab if I take it all off.”

Eyebrows quirking suggestively, Bennett gave Mitch a low whistle.

“I didn’t mean! Not—I don’t—I mean, I didn’t—not taking it _all off_ like the nudity you’re thinking, or—” Whole face on fire, Mitch cringed. “Showing up naked _really_ wouldn’t go over well at the lab, okay?”

“Yeah, I bet, but?” With a fond snicker, Bennett bumped their shoulders together. “I’m more impressed that someone so handsome actually goes to CalTech—especially since he’s one of us.” Either oblivious to Mitch’s blushing or else ignoring it, Bennett explained, “I thought the guys there were all, y’know, _straight_. And about as good-looking as rotten mayonnaise.”

“You aren’t wrong about that.”

As the pianist restarted the song they’d interrupted, Bennett twisted around in a way that had to be uncomfortable. “Being fair? I _did_ do work at USF. But it was all on different student papers and periodicals.”

“So, why were you in the communications department? Sounds like _journalism_ is what you do.”

“Oh, it _is_ , but…” His foot jostled Mitch’s foot. His calf nudged into Mitch’s leg. But Bennett’s smile looked like ice cream wouldn’t have melted in his mouth. “USF doesn’t have a journalism major. I minored in it, though some of my old friends from the Castro?”

Splaying his legs _just so_ , Bennett pressed his knee and thigh on Mitch’s. Hands clamping around his glass, Mitch gasped. In turn, he made Bennett snicker. While Mitch blushed down at the bar, Bennett leaned right up to his ear. His breath was hot on Mitch’s skin, his chuckle sweet and teasing. His bicep collided with Mitch’s shoulder, and God, this was not how Mitchell Iverson had ever planned on dying, but every second made that seem so much more likely—

“My old friends would say I minored in getting under people’s skin. Or getting into their jeans. Or, if you’re up for adventure?” He blew a kiss, then laughed when it made Mitch shiver. “Sometimes, it’s fun to try doing both.”

Mitch swallowed thickly. Tried to tune out the song playing behind him— _“You go to my head like a sip of sparkling burgundy brew, and I find the very mention of you like the kicker in a julep or two…”_ —because it was about as helpful as getting hit by a delivery truck. Grasping around his brain for any semblance of a clue, he didn’t remember where he’d misplaced his voice, but—

“You two need anything else?”

Letting out a sigh of relief, Mitch nodded to the bartender. Pressing his leg right back into Bennett’s, he asked, “Please, let me buy you a drink. I mean, if you want to? Or wouldn’t mind?”

Bennett smiled like a little imp. “I was beginning to think you’d never ask, Handsome.”

Once they’d put in their orders for a whiskey-cola and a mint julep, Mitch clarified, “The drink’s as much for me as for you. I don’t think I’m drunk enough to keep up with you, yet. Especially if you’ve got the same taste as my Ma.”

“Your mother likes drinking bourbon cocktails with tall, dark, handsome men in queer bars?”

“In her sitting room with an oversized black cat who hates me, but same difference.”

“Well, then I’d dare say I’ve got better taste than your mother.” Despite how briefly they’d known each other, Bennett looked Mitch in the eye and promised, “I can’t see any reason why I’d ever hate you, and I wouldn’t suffer any cats who did.”

Mitch hummed pensively. “Give it time. You might change your mind, come tomorrow. Or next week. Or whenever.”

  


* * *

  


Come the morning of Monday, September 23rd, Ryou is back in Mitch’s class. Back to slouching on the table in the graduate assistants’ lounge and perusing results from some of Mitch’s latest research. Back to proofreading different papers and periodically offering his suggestions about which ones need more work on the conclusions or in the suggestions for future research. By most people’s metric for judgment, Ryou slips into normalcy as though he never left.

Mitch knows better than to trust that, but he doesn’t press until a few days later, when he’s got Ryou in his office for another sit-down.

“We got Kashi into rehab,” the boy admits, tugging his hand through his hair and struggling to speak up at his usual volume. “Not that he liked the idea very much. Even once Aunt Satomi let him have his way about going to the LGBTQ-exclusive place in Minnesota, he just—”

Whatever’s on Ryou’s mind, he doesn’t get to finish that thought. Instead, his phone pipes up in his pocket, vibrating and blasting a digitized voice that Mitch hasn’t heard in he doesn’t even know how long: _“And I’m never gonna dance again. Guilty feet have got no rhythm. Though it’s easy to pretend—”_

“Hey, Kashi.” Slumping back in his seat, Ryou frowns and lets his eyes go wide with concern. “I’m all right, and you? I mean, relatively speaking? Has your one roommate—y’know, the weirdo—has he laid off hitting on you, yet?”

That notion makes Mitch arch the brow above his good eye. From what he hears of the Shirogane twins’ conversation, Kashi has an older roommate who comes on like an oil spill, blathering about Kashi’s beauty and how someone so attractive doesn’t belong in a clinic. Hardly conducive to anybody getting well. Mitch isn’t sure if that’s better or worse than Kashi’s alleged inability to keep his meals down—Hell, the boy’s new admirer has likely exacerbated that problem. Repetitious, unwanted advances could dump unnecessary stress on Kashi’s shoulders when he’s already struggling. Hearing another patient deny the reality of his problems while ignoring his wishes, and especially so soon after getting away from the abusive monster he left in Chicago?

Mitch folds his hands on the desk and kneads his thumb into his knuckles. The rush of heat twisting through his chest must be a matter of ethics, or morals, or basic human decency. That’s the only logical explanation for how much Mitch longs to punch someone on Kashi Shirogane’s behalf, despite never having met the kid.

Worse, the over-friendly roommate problem pales in comparison to Kashi’s other troubles, which Mitch more or less makes out. Although Ryou doesn’t put his brother on speakerphone, Mitch’s office is quiet and he has a vested interest in listening. Right before calling, Kashi endured a group therapy session that went other than well. Someone pushed the wrong way regarding Maurice and a different boy Kashi had been involved with in Chicago, one who apparently took a scholarship package in “probably New York or somewhere like that.” Twisting the emotional knife, the other patient asked if Kashi had actually loved his One Who Got Away, or had he only lied to himself about it so he could sleep at night.

Ragged and tight, as if the boy’s trying to quit sobbing, his breath hitches. Clear as day, Mitch hears, “He was all, ‘How could you even _say_ that you loved both of them at once? Don’t we get enough grief from straight people without people like you telling—no, _showing_ them everything bad they think about us is completely _right_?’ Like I don’t already know that…”

As Kashi goes on, Mitch wonders where on the clinic’s campus that boy is hiding. Confidentiality ought to be in effect here, just as it is at Mitch’s regular meetings, barring Kashi from unloading all of this on Ryou. Mitch would point that out, if not for the fact that Kashi kept himself together while still stuck in his therapy session. According to him, the therapist leading the group intervened to remind everyone how accusations like that helped no one and skirted dangerously close to breaking several rules for patients’ conduct. As soon as Kashi got excused to go “enjoy” some free-time, he exploded into a thirty-minute crying jag before he could keep his hands steady enough to call his brother.

Times like this, by-the-letter confidentiality doesn’t help nearly as much as a little understanding.

At least a summons to lunch keeps Kashi from going on too much longer or spilling any secrets other than his own. Once the twins hang up, Ryou groans an apology and massages the bridge of his nose. It’s unnecessary, Ryou acting like he’s done something wrong by taking a call from someone who loves him. Especially given everything Kashi’s going through, nobody should hold that brief interruption against Ryou. Yet, he can’t stop fidgeting like he anticipates the dropping of another soe. He radiates nervous energy until the air grows sauna-thick and suffocating.

Maybe Mitch can’t diffuse the tension—but he clears his throat anyway. “‘Careless Whisper,’ huh? Odd choice for a brother’s ringtone.”

Ryou shakes his head. “I know how it sounds, sir? But that’s just his favorite song. Has been since we were five.”

“Pretty unique taste for a five-year-old. All my sisters’ kids wanted at that age was Disney.”

“Oh, he liked Disney perfectly fine, too. He just…” Heaving a sigh like a thousand-year nap wouldn’t help him any, Ryou lets his head loll back. Speaking to the ceiling, he explains, “Aunt Satomi turned Kashi on to George Michael and he’s been a fan ever since. He’s called the man his patron saint since we were thirteen. And I keep waiting for him to get over that song already and find a new favorite, but…”

“Doesn’t seem likely?”

This earns a half-baked laugh. “Sir, I’m pretty sure Kashi could get in bed with George Michael and even if the sex were completely awful? He would still love ‘Careless Fucking Whisper’ more than any other song, literally ever.”

Nodding, Mitch folds his hands together. Rests on his elbows. Kisses the gold ring on his left hand and says a silent prayer of thanks for Bennett sauntering into his life and sticking around when no one would’ve blamed him for leaving. So many of Mitch’s best experiences never would’ve happened without his husband. More importantly, without the man he loves, Mitch wouldn’t be in any shape to offer the Shirogane twins any help or guidance.

“I know it’s a bit early for this, yet.” Lowering his hands to the desk, Mitch gives Ryou a small, sympathetic smile. “But when he gets out, if his exit plan involves support group meetings? We have them at the LGBTQ community center over on Spring Street, every Tuesday and Friday. Your brother will be welcome there.”

  


* * *

  


“So, Handsome, might an intrepid young reporter ask a question of you?”

Mitch’s shoulders tensed and he clinked the ice cubes around his glass. “Halfway through our first shared round. That’s a bit quick to go proposing elopement, isn’t it?”

With a playful smirk, Bennett shook his head. His ponytail swished against the collar of his bomber jacket, and a loose clump of hair tumbled from behind his ear, flopped out into his face with artful carelessness. That smile of his shone in the dusky lighting, making Mitch’s inhale snag so hard, he couldn’t tell how in the sam heck he stayed conscious, much less how he got himself breathing again. God, if this conversation killed him, then he didn’t know if he’d mind. Death by Bennett Martínez—there were so many worse ways to go.

If Mitch hadn’t known better, he’d have thought the current song had been picked out to mess with him and call him out specifically. He’d have thought that the pianist meant to tease him into the next millennium with this slow, lilting ballad, singing deep and resonant, _“How I’d leave in autumn, I never will know. I’ve seen how you sparkle when fall nips the air…”_

“You’re a hard one to get a read on, Mitch, you know?”

“Hmm, really? I thought you liked a challenge.”

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing. I’m just observing. It’s part of what I do.”

“Good habit for a reporter to be in, yeah. Can’t have you missing out on any big scoops.”

“Definitely not. But at the moment…” Leaning closer, with an expression like he was formulating the best bad idea ever, Bennett brushed the back of his hand against Mitch’s. “If you want to make me work for all the answers you’re hiding? Then we could always make a game out of this. If you’re open to that.”

Mitch wrinkled his nose. “How does making it a game mean that you’re doing work?”

“Try asking football players. Basketball players. Professional chess champions. Professional poker players. The people who test new video games for Nintendo and Atari. Hockey players. People who train dogs—”

“Point taken, Pretty Boy.” A decent sip of whiskey-cola, then Mitch prodded, “But how does making a game right now mean that _you specifically_ are doing actual work in this instance?”

Rolling his lip between his teeth, Bennett chuckled as if this question didn’t warrant real consideration—or as if he were nervous; Mitch couldn’t tell. “Well, you could still give back as good as you get from me. Or try lying to me.” He tapped on his glass before throwing back the rest of his julep. “Buy us another round or two, why don’t you?”

“That definitely doesn’t sound like work to me. Alcohol loosens lips—”

“You don’t just drink them indiscriminately, though—”

Mitch huffed, mock-offended, and downed his remaining whiskey-cola.

Fortunately, Bennett graced Mitch with a beautiful, wicked smile. “This is one of my favorite games. Once we’ve got our drinks, we trade interesting facts about ourselves. Start out small—like where you came from before the physics labs at CalTech got hold of you—but try to one-up each other—”

“ _That’s_ not gonna go well.” Mitch shrugged at Bennett’s arched eyebrows, but God, the whole bar must’ve been able to hear his heartbeat. His whole chest pounded, hard enough to drown out a drumline. “You’ll end up disappointed. There’s nothing all that interesting about me.”

“Well, I want to hear anything you want to tell me.” Nudging his boot at Mitch’s ankle, Bennett gave off the distinct air of a cat having its way with a mouse before scarfing down dinner. “But if it helps at all? I can ask you questions. And let you do it back. Make this a little mutual interview.”

That didn’t sound like it would help—but Hell on Earth, Mitch couldn’t bring himself to refuse. Not with Bennett sitting there and smiling so easily, it almost made Mitch believe things wouldn’t be as insurmountably difficult as they seemed. Not with him offering more conversation and a free excuse to drink together, for all the alcohol didn’t make sense as an element of the game he had in mind. Still, by way of agreeing to Bennett’s terms, Mitch flagged down the barkeep. He’d take two more whiskey-colas, while Bennett switched things up, thirsty for gin-and-tonics.

While they waited on their liquor, Mitch tried not to let himself visibly fidget. Made his nerves itch, waiting without tearing up any napkins or fussing with the hem of his shirt. But if he’d seemed ill at ease, even for a second, then Bennett might’ve changed his mind about this game and about Mitch. He might’ve seen the cracks in Mitch’s veneer and decided that he deserved so much better than humoring Mitch with unwarranted attention.

As soon as their fresh drinks arrived, Mitch grabbed his up. He had to get the taste of nerves out of his mouth. Had to make sure that Bennett wouldn’t notice all the reasons why he wanted nothing to do with Mitch. He only paused because Bennett’s hand curled around his wrist.

“Nuh uh,” Bennett sing-songed. “Not yet.”

“Brave man, trying to get between me and my Jameson.”

“Only temporarily, though.” Letting an amused noise slip from his throat, Bennett grinned. “Whatever either of us says in the game? We’re allowed to lie. If I think you’re lying, though—or if you think I am—then we can call, ‘Bullshit’ on each other. If you’re wrong about that call, you drink. But if one of us catches a lie, then the one who got caught drinks.”

“Heck, I might drink whenever something you say impresses me. I’ll get hammered dead quick.”

“These terms sound good? You can ask the first question, if they do.”

Nodding, Mitch opted for, “Were you born in San Francisco?”

“No. Moved there with my Mama when I was fifteen.” Pensively, Bennett drummed his fingertips along his cheekbone. “And where did you call home before you got to CalTech?”

“Kansas.”

“Mitch, really?”

“Bennett. Really.” He shrugged. “Born and raised in Lawrence.”

“Oh, bullshit, Handsome. Nobody interesting ever comes out of Kansas. Why d’you think Dorothy Gale wanted to get away from there so badly?”

“To save her little dog from getting murdered by the neighbor lady? Then because she didn’t like doing farmwork? I mean, the movie isn’t subtle about those points.” Rolling his eyes, Mitch took out his wallet and handed over his driver’s license. “Read it and weep.”

Bennett’s eyebrows threatened to leap off his forehead. “That only proves that you used to live in Kansas. Not that you were _born_ there.”

“You only asked me where I last called home.”

“Well, _you_ said that you were born and raised there.”

Choking down the impulse to sigh, Mitch proffered a bit of heavy paper, meticulously folded into quarters. As he put away his license, he couldn’t help smirking over Bennett’s low whistle. Not often did Mitchell Iverson get to impress anyone besides his boss, especially not with something personal like this.

“I admit: I didn’t expect you to have your birth certificate on-hand.” Once he’d given it back, Bennett took his drink. In response to Mitch’s next question, he snorted. “Very original, echoing me back at me. But, uh… Roswell, New Mexico. Born there, but I mostly grew up on the Jicarilla Apache Reservation. So, I don’t know anything about aliens or incidents or anything.”

“Pretty sure the Roswell Incident was before your time, anyway.” While Mitch had an idea for his next question, he first had to endure his cheeks flushing hot as Bennett’s boot rubbed at his ankle again. “Unless you’re a time-traveler or something.”

“I might be, but…” Bennett hummed, then asked, “Most incredible place you’ve ever been.”

 _West Berlin_ , Mitch thought—and immediately wished that he could’ve thrown back his entire drink right then and there. Too bad that probably would’ve broken the rules they’d decided on, and a completely honest answer would’ve made Bennett realize how much better he could’ve done. No doubt, there were so many guys around here who’d been to Germany for way better reasons than Mitch and would’ve kept Bennett happier.

Besides, thinking about his time in Europe made Mitch feel sick. Mentioning Berlin or Stuttgart wouldn’t have given his military history away as much as mentioning Vietnam, Zaïre, Beirut, Grenada, Bolivia, or the Korean demilitarized zone—but Berlin had so many other things tied up in it. So many bars that Mitch hadn’t allowed himself to visit because he might’ve enjoyed himself too much. So many boys he’d spotted and recognized as kin, then tried to avoid as much as possible. So many fears that he’d left out on the sidewalk tonight because they were ancient history and they weren’t supposed to matter anymore—until Bennett had wanted to know this particular answer and Mitch found himself drowning in guilt, and shame, and wishing he were someone else.

Which did approximately nothing to help him uphold his end of this game. So, Mitch huffed, “Barbados, probably.”

Bennett should’ve called the lie. He should’ve spotted the tension in Mitch’s voice and back, the way he looked over Bennett’s shoulder and not at his face, the brevity of that answer, even relative to everything else that Mitch had said so far.

Instead, Bennett whistled again. “That sounds like a real set of stories.”

“Guess you could say something like that.”

“Don’t suppose you’ll ever tell me about them, huh?”

“Maybe someday. Maybe tonight, if you play your cards, right. And when it isn’t _my_ turn to ask the questions.” Fondly, Mitch snickered at the embarrassed little grin that he got from Bennett. Jesus, how was it even fair for a human being to be so beautiful? “Going from the reservation to San Francisco, what happened there?”

“Won a scholarship to USF, like I said before. As if I’d turn down a full ride and cost of living stipends.”

“Can’t argue with that, but? You won it when you were _fifteen_?”

“Guess I must’ve impressed somebody. My Dad decided it meant I had some great, gifted destiny. Mama took it as a sign that her God was real, that He and Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe had heard her praying and seen her lighting candles, and they didn’t want me dealing with the obnoxious little brats at school—whether on the Rez or not. Because both of those schools were Hell for me.” Bennett’s smirk faltered, looking like it’d been haphazardly painted on. “Did you mean to officially call, ‘Bullshit’? Or was it just the heat of the moment?”

Taking a drink got Bennett to chuckle more genuinely. For his next question, he went with, “So, do you _really_ go to CalTech? Or do you just work there?”

“Work there—” Mitch paused to let Bennett groan. “I only work there for _now_.”

“What’s that mean, ‘for now’?”

“It means things are gonna change for me in due time. Plan is, I’ll be a doctoral student by this time next year. Not just a research assistant.”

“Y’know, for guys like us? I’m pretty sure there’s nothing, _‘just’_ about being a CalTech research assistant.”

“One of my old professors knows my current boss. He pointed me to the job and vouched for me. Good thing he did; I couldn’t handle staying in Lawrence.” But Mitch had a turn to take in this little game. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “What’s the secret to your shirt-change magic?”

Bennett snorted. “Literal magic, like I told you.”

“Bullshit, Beautiful.”

“Or maybe I’m handing you a free excuse to take a drink. Because I want you to keep up with me, the way _you_ said.” As Mitch took that offer and a sip, Bennett sighed and slouched onto his elbows, propping his chin in his palm. “Anyway, it’s really not a secret. I just carry an extra shirt with me when I go out. You learn to be prepared, in one of my lines of work.”

 _Well, that sounds like you moonlight as a hustler,_ Mitch didn’t say because it would’ve been unforgivably rude.

Fortunately, Bennett kept things moving: “Why aren’t you a doctoral student already?”

“Didn’t have time to finish the application.” Which should’ve been well enough to leave alone—but that spark in Bennett’s eyes wanted to hear more of the story. Embellishing could’ve easily gotten messy. Regardless, Mitch told him, “Last year was one family emergency after another. Commitments needed honoring. Then, my Pop died. My oldest sister’s eldest kid got sick. Ma got sick not long after—but then, her nerves are bad, so she’s usually some kinda sick. The November deadline for the applications flew by and I didn’t notice until February.”

True, he’d left out a great deal. He’d neglected to mention Panama, and the fact that he’d been doing physical rehab when he remembered that he’d wanted to hang up his uniform and get an application for CalTech together, and that the loss of his eye had been involved, even had a starring role in the whole story. None of what Mitch said had been a lie, though—and good thing for both of them, Bennett didn’t bother trying to call, _“Bullshit.”_

“I’m sorry,” he said, gently nudging his shoulder against Mitch’s. “At least you’re moving on from all of that, though, right?”

Mitch nodded; saying anything aloud might’ve led to him spilling guts that he didn’t want to spill. The onus to ask a question fell on him now. Trying not to think for too long, he went with, “Why does a journalist need to change shirts so often, then?”

“Mmm, spoken like a man who’s never been to an ACT UP demonstration. Or any queer rally.”

“Sure haven’t,” Mitch’s mouth spit out before he could think to stop it. Cheeks flushing warm, he rubbed his temple. “Not that I don’t—There’s a lot of important work—And I get what’s going on, what’s _been_ going on, and it’s all important, I just—I’m not saying that it’s like, or that _you_ —”

“I didn’t mean it as a judgment.” Bennett’s smile was soft, and so was the way he batted his foot at Mitch’s calf. “Look, it’s all fine for rich, white gays to tell the rest of us that we have to be at every single demonstration or the FDA wins, and Bush and Reagan get their wish for queer genocide, and we’re all doomed. But you know who’s got more to lose if they get fired over that? And you know who got turned away, when they staged the first die-ins out in New York?”

Truth told, Mitch didn’t know, but it was easy enough to guess, “Guys and dolls like us?”

“Black gays. Asian gays. Latino gays. Flashy fairies who were too swishy or too fem. Lesbians who looked too butch. Drag queens. Radical queers. Anyone who looked too old or too sick. Anyone with too much panache, like…” Bennett flicked his wrist and snapped his fingers—and rolled his eyes so hard, it was a miracle they stayed inside his skull. “They were all _too much_ and _not welcome_. No matter that they wanted to fight to live. All the organizers wanted were the good-looking, coed-aged, gender-conforming white kids. Faces that’d play in Peoria, y’know.”

“A whole new generation of Rock Hudsons and Doris Days?” Mitch couldn’t help chuckling at the sour expression Bennett pulled, his whole face wrinkling up like he’d sucked a rotten lemon. Just in case he’d hit a genuine nerve, though, Mitch held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, Pretty Boy. Didn’t mean to disgust you or anything.”

“Nah, it’s not you. It’s them.” Grunting, Bennett worked a knot out of his neck. “I’ve got this friend out in New York. He and his man teach at Columbia—and he says that his man isn’t his man, _but_ I say that’s a load, ‘specially with how long they’ve already been seeing each other—and he, that is, my friend? He’s been involved in organizing and disseminating information since the Crisis started. And God, he can go on all night about how rich, white, New York gays have tried to exploit Rock Hudson’s death—and still gotten next to nothing for it.”

“I mean, they must’ve got _something_ out of all that work? It can’t’ve been completely pointless.”

“Try telling that to everyone who can’t get on AZT because it’s too expensive or they can’t get to a doctor in the first place.”

Mitch glanced around Bennett to the bowl of condoms at the end of the bar. “More information’s out there, now. ‘Cause Rock Hudson made folks pay attention. Heck, Princess Di got people to learn better about how the virus is spread, right?”

“Supposedly—but I still have to hear coworkers at the _Star-News_ talking about, ‘Oh, I heard you can catch it off a toothbrush, I heard you can catch it by sharing glassware.’” Shoulders sagging like Atlas holding up the sky, Bennett went on, “Anyway, try going on about the spread of information with the people who get sick from the AZT but can’t get access to anything else outside of buyers’ clubs—which are doing the best they can, but…? They shouldn’t _need_ to. Because the FDA shouldn’t be in bed with Burroughs Wellcome.”

Noting Mitch’s bemused shrug, Bennett explained, “Pharmaceutical company. They make AZT.”

“Got it, and points taken, but?” Mitch’s shoulders quirked again, and he would’ve sworn they’d done it by themselves. “Isn’t there anything worth saying for what’s come out of this? I mean, from what I heard, more people are trying to be there for—supporting…”

Trailing off, Mitch swallowed thickly. Normally, he made a point of letting no one cow him without good reason, like being a commanding officer, a professor, or a boss. But Bennett’s pursed lips kicked him square in the stomach with—so much. With too much. With feeling.

No. With feelings, plural. Too many feelings, all messed up in a mental fog, heaped together and hopelessly tangled. Even if Mitch had broken the game’s rules and taken a drink, he couldn’t have sorted these emotions out from an old shortbread tin full of sewing supplies, much less from each other. Trying to pick through them and tell which desires were which, or what they thought they could translate to—aside from how much he wanted to grab Bennett’s face and kiss him on the mouth.

Since Mitch made no moves to do that, Bennett had room to sigh and ask, “So, is this your first time in a gay bar, or what?”

“ _What_? I…” Gasping, Mitch flushed so hot, the air should’ve caught on fire.

He heaved a deep breath. Steeled himself, or tried to. Told himself to get this over with—but he couldn’t bring himself to say what Bennett no doubt wanted to hear. Couldn’t bring himself to speak at all. Felt like he’d so easily get swept out to sea in the pianist’s current ballad: _“Tonight, the music seems so loud. I wish that we could lose this crowd. Maybe it’s better this way; we’d hurt each other with the things we want to say…”_

This was the most recently released song that Mitch had heard since first strolling into Davey’s. It could’ve grounded him, kept him in the present. Yet, his nerves kept fluttering, his heart still thrashed inside his chest, and each breath felt impossibly difficult.

How could he get his mouth around a simple lie when this song—this goddamn song—dragged him right back to Stuttgart and West Berlin? To dark discotheques like what he’d expected to find tonight, nightclub dance floors teeming with people, with sweaty bodies writhing on each other like snakes through dirt? To burying himself in drink after endless glass of drink, keeping his head down, cleaving to whatever bar he could, and hoping against all hope that no one recognized him as one of _those_ boys, but also that no women tried to flirt with him, thereby forcing Mitch to either reject them at great personal risk or accept offers that he knew would never work—

With a gentle huff, Bennett pushed back Mitch’s black leather sleeve and curled a hand around his wrist. Watching Mitch closely, his eyes shone and his expression softened, though his face remained almost deliberately inscrutable.

“It’s all right, y’know. Not everybody can—I mean? Accepting that you’re gay can be hard enough, right? Doing it alone, or relatively alone? Especially when you hear what most of us have heard? And if there aren’t any gay bars nearby—”

“I wouldn’t’ve known them, if there were. Not back in Kansas. Heck, I wouldn’t’ve even known about this place if I hadn’t seen an ad in some…” Mitch waved his free hand in front of his face. “Some rag that _somebody_ left out on a table at the LA Public Library.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, Mitch?” Now, Bennett allowed himself to smile—and God, it was like a burst of sunlight through heavy, gray clouds. “You picked a good place to make your first. And… I’m glad you plucked up whatever it took to get you here.”

“Mhmm, because you wanna sleep with me,” Mitch said before he could stop himself.

To his surprise, this earned another pensive hum from Bennett. “On most nights? Yeah, you’d be exactly right.” Spotting the way Mitch blushed, the way he sat up at attention, Bennett grinned. “But for you, Handsome? I don’t think I’d mind acting like a good, old-fashioned lover boy, instead.”

As if sealing the promise, he ducked in and kissed Mitch on the cheek.

Hoping to tune out how much his face flushed, Mitch bit his lip. Letting his eyes dart all over the room—over the somber groups who’d gotten lost in their own quiet conversations, over the solitary barflies in danger of disappearing into their glasses, over the pianist as he started another new number that Mitch recognized, singing, _“You must remember this: a kiss is just a kiss. A sigh is just a sigh. The fundamental things apply as time goes by…”_ —Mitch wondered if he could ever seamlessly fit in with all these regulars. He’d already tried to act like he belonged here; Bennett had picked him for a first-timer all the same.

Yet, when Mitch looked back to Bennett, that fact hardly mattered. How could anything else in the world really matter when Bennett insisted on smiling so warmly, right at Mitch, as if he himself had done something to make Bennett so happy?

“What’s going on in here tonight?” Mitch blurted out, because he needed to say something, had to keep things going with him and Bennett. “I mean—not for nothing? It’s a very fine evening and all? But it’s really not what I expected to find in this kind of bar, so—”

“Well, let’s start with: what’d you expect to find?”

“I dunno, dancing? Back-room blowjobs? Guys grinding all up in each other? Orgies? Nearly naked go-go boys who dance in cages hanging from the ceiling?”

“The go-go boys only work on Wednesdays, Fridays, and weekend,” Bennett deadpanned. Nudging at Mitch’s shoulder, he tried to keep his smile up, but as soon as Mitch chuckled, Bennett dropped the act. “I’m guessing you want to know—that your real question is more, why is everything so subdued?”

“Yeah. I get that it’s Thursday—and really, a pretty good turnout for a Thursday night—but everybody’s so… Not that they can’t act however they want because they _can_? They’re paying customers and all? I just didn’t think things would be so…”

“Woebegone? Despondent? Melancholy?”

“Good word for it.” Certainly better than the ideas that Mitch had come up with. He should’ve kept them to himself, should’ve kept his mouth shut—but with a sigh, Mitch added, “More polite than saying that the whole place seems pretty gotdamn miserable. Which is about the best that I can say about it.”

“‘Miserable’ isn’t wrong, though. Maybe you could say my choice of words was more diplomatic, or at least more like I swallowed a thesaurus.”

Jerking his head, Bennett pointed out one of the groups sitting along the wall, a quartet of older patrons with the drinks.

Specifically, he focused on the man sitting dead-center in the booth. Gray streaks littered his dark hair, making him look like he’d just come down from hunting for a lost heirloom in someone’s dusty attic. His black suit fit him well, but was rumpled as if he’d slept in it—which the dark rings and bags beneath his eyes suggested that he hadn’t. From the looks of things, this man hadn’t slept in weeks. He was neither ragged nor emaciated, the way people with AIDS so often got (as far as Mitch knew). Yet, the man seemed to stare into an endless oblivion, the most unfathomable darkness, and as the pianist played on— _“It’s still the same old story: a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die…”_ —tears rolled down the other man’s cheeks.

“That’s Stephen,” Bennett explained, lowering his voice and reclining toward Mitch’s chest. How he balanced himself so easily, Mitch had no idea. As long as he got to keep Bennett leaning on him, though, Mitch didn’t mind his own ignorance. “This whole evening—it’s not exactly for _him_ , but Stephen’s the guest of honor, in a way. Most of us are here for him. He picked out which songs Peter could play tonight, too.”

Peter must’ve been the pianist—but more importantly, Bennett squirmed. Maybe he wobbled, suddenly unsteady. If so, then maybe Mitch could help him stay upright—help keep Bennett from toppling over—by snaking an arm around his trim waist. He held his breath as he laid his hand on Bennett’s hip. He let himself sigh when Bennett slouched against him and nestled close. In the back of his mind, Mitch caught a flare of doubt—surely, it couldn’t be all right for them to canoodle like this, not even in a bar like this—but his thoughts went silent as Bennett let his head loll back onto Mitch’s shoulder.

“We’re having a wake. Stephen’s one of the media and PR coordinators for ACT UP Pasadena. His partner, George, was part of our political lobbying team. And, well, you’ve gotta know how these things go—”

“Oh, no, he didn’t—”

“PCP Pneumonia got him in the end. Stephen had to fight George’s parents for a seat at the church and everything—”

“Jesus Christ—”

“For Stephen’s sake? I sure hope Jesus Christ had nothing to do with anything—”

“It’s not exactly surprising? I mean, how many other guys have had—”

“Too many, Mitch. _Way_ too fucking many—”

“But, wait?” Turning his head, Mitch found himself nuzzling Bennett’s templed. He hadn’t meant to do that—he didn’t think so, anyway—but Bennett didn’t seem to mind. “I thought there—I read, I mean? There are prophylactic treatments for that, right? So you can _avoid_ PCP? Or were they for toxoplasmosis? Or maybe something else? But I felt pretty sure they were for PCP pneumonia?”

“Bactrim’s the go-to PCP prophylaxis, if you can get someone to prescribe it, but…” Bennett shook his head. “George had to quit taking it; his skin was practically melting off. So, when the PCP got to him…”

Trailing off with great significance, Bennett shrugged.

Mitch nodded, but couldn’t make his mouth work properly.

As if there were any doubt what Bennett meant, he added, “Stephen and some of the other folks from our group? They thought something like this was a more fitting tribute to George and his life than the sterile, whitewashed, anemic affair that his parents hosted. Which most of us weren’t allowed to be at, anyway. I only got in because Stephen took me under his wing at the _Star-News_ , and while he was vouching for me? George’s mother just…”

Groaning, he let his head drop back onto Mitch’s shoulder. “She heard, ‘protege’ and wanted to accuse Stephen of having a younger boyfriend already, when George has barely been dead a week. Said boyfriend being me.”

“I’m sorry,” Mitch whispered, giving Bennett’s waist a gentle squeeze. It didn’t feel like enough—but at the same time, Mitch couldn’t think of anything else to say.

As the pianist drawled another of Ms. Ella’s hits— _“There’s no love song finer. But how strange the change from major to minor, ev’ry time we say goodbye…”_ —all Mitch could do was keep embracing Bennett. He held Bennett closer than he should’ve held somebody whom he’d just met tonight, and several parts of Mitch’s mind screamed that he should’ve stopped already because this had to be wrong and it could never last.

No matter how wrong or presumptuous such intimacy might’ve been, though, Bennett stayed right where he was on Mitch’s chest. No matter what anybody thought or didn’t, Bennett curled his fingers around Mitch’s wrist as if they belonged there now, as if Bennett had been waiting for so long, all to find a wrist that so perfectly fit inside his grip.

This wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. First meetings this nice never led to good places—but God help him, with Bennett leaning against him like this, Mitch didn’t have the heart to argue.

  


* * *

  


For November’s second meeting, Mitch ambles up to the Spring Street community center nearly an hour early. Hauling the door open, he lets an umbrella dangle off his fingers and balances two oversized boxes of cookies in his right arm. Bless Bennett’s heart, he didn’t want to refuse an unexpected, homemade gift from an old friend who he met with over the weekend, but Mitch has several vested interests in getting these admittedly delicious treats out of their place.

Fortunately, David and Miranda never turn down the offer of free food to set out. Whatever doesn’t get eaten before the meeting or during postgame coffee-talk, they’ll give to the young folks staying in the center’s shelter space.

As Mitch helps himself to a styrofoam cup of coffee, someone flurries down the corridor, storming harder than the rain outside bangs on the roof and windows. He barely catches a glimpse of their messy black hair as they rocket past the rec room. Either they’re new tonight or they’re trying to get somewhere else, but Mitch puts it out of his mind. Instead, he focuses on putting water on the hot-plate and rearranging the boxes of tea bags. Then, on setting up one of the coffee-makers with a pot for Blaine, Jeri, and the other decaf-downing heathens. All the while, those shortbreads with the strawberry filling gleam, calling Mitch’s name like sirens.

He’s about to give in and take one when the human hurricane doubles back—only to stop dead in their tracks. Barely breathing, they hover in the threshold like a vampire waiting for someone to extend an invitation.

Or maybe like they aren’t sure they’re in the right place. Silently, they peer around the room. Maybe they want reassurance or some kind of sign—who even knows. Hunching their broad shoulders doesn’t hide their impressive height, but aside from noting their pale tawny skin, Mitch can’t get a good fix on their face. Around the legs, they’ve got more black denim than thigh. A fraying hole in their jeans exposes one knobby knee. Finally, with their head bowed and their hands buried in the pockets of a heavy, black peacoat, they lurch toward Miranda.

Briefly, Mitch considers pointing out that people can’t attend meetings if they’re drunk. Watching the newcomer move quickly silences those objections, though. Despite how they thundered in the hall, they let the tempest bleed out of them, teetering like Bambi learning how to walk and slouching like they expect someone to send them away. When Miranda coos, _“I’m so glad that you came, sweetheart,”_ they flinch before they nod, telling her something too softly for Mitch to eavesdrop. When she asks if they want a hug, they need to think about it. Although they ultimately agree, they’re slow to return her embrace and quick to pull away.

Bid to get themself comfortable before the meeting starts, they newcomer skulks toward the folding chairs. They pick out one near the back of the rec room’s horseshoe arrangement. Peeling off the peacoat, they reveal a floppy, zipped up sweatshirt with fraying cuffs. They drape the jacket over one chair to claim it as their own—but then, they hesitate.

High cheekbones stick out far enough to seem skeletal. Bruise-dark circles under the newcomer’s eyes glare at Mitch, while the deep hollows of their cheeks make his skin crawl with an inexplicable sense that _something_ isn’t right. Venturing onto one-on-one, personal limbs isn’t one of Mitch’s habits—but whatever’s going wrong for the newcomer, it’s making them go alone. David and Miranda give them a wide berth, which makes sense as an approach. The thought of it makes Mitch’s stomach churn, though. Shouldn’t someone be more proactive? Try making the new kid feel more welcome, or more at ease, or _anything_?

Before he can take in anything else about the newcomer’s appearance, they slump into their chair like a marionette without its strings. With a sigh, they let their head loll back. Frowning, Mitch refills his coffee and pours a second cup. When he comes up behind the newcomer, he finds their eyes closed. If not for the stuttering rise and fall of their chest, Mitch would wonder if they were still alive. To announce his presence, Mitch clears his throat.

“Hope you don’t drink decaf,” he says, putting on a smile that he hopes looks gentle. If not that, he’ll settle for seeming neutral.

“In my late Grandmother’s words?” Heaving a deep, shaky breath, the newcomer cracks their eyes open. “I’ll switch to decaf when I’m dead.”

Up close, the newcomer reminds Mitch of children who’ve lost their parents at the mall. About twenty different retorts wither up as they blink at Mitch with soft, ash-gray eyes. Tired as they look, their eyes gleam like molten mercury, the way that Ryou’s do when he— _oh_.

No mistaking those eyes. They’re _exactly_ like Ryou’s and, according to him, exactly like his late Mom’s.

Still, assumptions leave a bad taste in Mitch’s mouth. Sitting beside the newcomer, he proffers the coffee. Can this kid _really_ be Ryou’s brother? While he stares long into whatever sam hecking abyss he thinks he’s been handed, he misses the way Mitch furrows his brow. Now that Mitch is thinking about it, Maybe-Takashi’s cheekbones arch in a way that’s an awful lot like Ryou’s. The biggest difference, as far as Mitch can tell, is that Ryou is heavyset and chunky while the newcomer cannot possibly weigh enough to be healthy for his height.

Taking a long drink of his own coffee, Mitch recalls the chin-wag he and Ryou had yesterday morning. He’d left campus immediately after his last class on Halloween, rushing to Logan International, and he’d taken Friday off. He used that long weekend to get his twin settled and make a few appointments. After taking last week to get back into a decent groove, in the relative safe space of Mitch’s office, Ryou buried his face in his palms and groaned like he was two steps off from a meltdown.

 _“Kashi, he’s—God help me, sir? I’m terrified,”_ Ryou confessed, voice breaking. _“It’s like anything I do could set him back. Or knock him down. Or I don’t know what—and sure, I knew he’d be a mess? But—”_ He gasped, swallowed thickly, but did not start crying. _“I didn’t expect him to come back so_ ** _thin_** _… Figuring out he has an eating disorder, isn’t that supposed to make him_ ** _better_** _?”_

Dimly, Mitch wanted to point out that there were probably several reasons why Ryou’s brother might’ve lost weight in rehab. Not that anyone could tell from eyeballing Mitch’s body now, but he’d dropped about thirty pounds of booze-gut, when he’d first quit drinking. That fact probably wouldn’t have given Ryou any hope, though. Heck, the best thing that Mitch ever gets out of it, is knowing that he got _this_ belly from home-cooked meals and the love of a good man, the sort of life he’d never dreamed of having until it fell into his lap.

Being Takashi Shirogane would explain how drawn and gaunt the guy beside Mitch looks. Setting his empty cup on the chair to his other side, he shucks out of his sweatshirt and Mitch chokes down a gasp at the sight of him. The newcomer’s arms are faintly bronzed, like Ryou’s, but so needle-skinny that Mitch can clearly see the bones and veins in this kid’s wrists. As Maybe-Takashi works a crick out of his back, his torso drowns in a black t-shirt.

Splashed across his chest, sits another suggestive piece of evidence: a sepia-toned picture of a young George Michael. Coiffed and clean-shaven, he hugs himself and stares up at the spotlight bathing him. Beside the photo, a pretentious serif font spells out his name; below that are the italicized words, _“careless whisper”_ —Ryou’s brother’s favorite song.

If this living rag-doll isn’t Takashi Shirogane, then Mitch will need to make sure he’s on the right side of the looking-glass.

While Mitch tries to find something he can say without sounding tedious, Maybe-Takashi curls one leg up to his chest. Humming pensively, he props his chin on his bare knee. “So, are we allowed to share names here or what? Do I have to just call you… I dunno, the magical Fairy Godfather of sharing coffee?”

“I prefer, ‘Mitch’—but then again? No one’s ever called me their Fairy Godfather before. At least, not positively.” He snorts as though it might take the edge off of this situation. When the kid only nods in understanding, silently hinting that he’s heard, _“fairy”_ as an insult too, Mitch gives him a sympathetic sigh. “Anyway, we do share names. Usually not surnames, but…” He shrugs. “Any name you’re comfortable with.”

The kid starts to answer Mitch’s tacit question—but before he’s spit out two syllables, something vibrates down around his hip. While Maybe-Takashi cringes, glaring at the ceiling like it owes him money, Mick Jagger’s digitized voice drones, _“I look inside myself and see my heart is black. I see my red door, I must have it painted black.”_

“God, I’m sorry—”

_“Maybe then I’ll fade away—”_

“‘s all right, son—”

_“—and not have to face the facts—”_

“I’ve really gotta take this.”

Mitch wants to ask how the kid can tell when he hasn’t gotten his phone out of his pocket yet. But he bites his tongue, watching Maybe-Takashi glower at the screen while Mick Jagger carries on with, _“It’s not easy facing up when your whole world is black—”_

“ _What_.” Rolling his eyes, Maybe-Takashi drops his chin back onto his knee. “Oh, my God—did I go to the meeting? _No_ , I ran into Elim Garak on the walk over. We’re in his runabout, heading up to the ship. I’m probably gonna lose reception in deep space, but anyway, I guess I’m gonna be his and Dr. Bashir’s kept boy, now. I’ll send you a space-postcard from Bajor, how’s that sound.”

Mitch snorts at that, despite knowing better. If he’s dealing with Takashi—and everything, including this current bullshit outburst, suggests that he is—then Mitch knows enough about the situation that he shouldn’t encourage certain behaviors. But maybe it’s okay: his laugh puts an impish spark in the kid’s eyes, and it isn’t often that Mitch hears anybody reference _Star Trek: Deep Space 9_. Too bad the kid loses his playful smirk while listening to whoever’s calling him.

“Will you calm _down_?” The kid sneers at the overhead fluorescent lights. “I ate dinner, I sat with you for an hour, what more do you want from me.”

Based on this side of the conversation, Mitch guesses the kid earned himself a response like, _“I want to know that you went to the Spring Street AA meeting”_ or, _“I want to know where you’ve wandered off to.”_ Both options sound fair enough, to Mitch.

Yet, the kid pulls a sour face. “God, _seriously_ , Ryou?”

Mitch takes a sip of coffee so he can’t let himself grin when that feels ungodly inappropriate. Mystery solved, however: he has indeed found Takashi Shirogane, his advisee’s infamous brother, relatively fresh out of rehab and looking like more than his fair share of mess.

Tugging bony fingers through his hair exactly like Ryou does, Takashi groans. “The only people I know in town are you, Matt, my new doctor, my new _therapist_ , and Miranda at the community center. Sure, Matt has a friend who _wants_ to meet me, but doesn’t it stand to reason—”

Whatever Ryou interjects with, it makes Takashi shake his head and mouth, _“Blah, blah, blah…”_

Once he gets a reprieve from his brother’s concern, he huffs. “Look, yes, I went to the meeting. I was in the middle of talking to someone before you decided to—” He grumbles, apparently getting cut off again. “I _know_ I’ve given you reason for worry. But all I wanted when I left, was to get out of the apartment. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so why not head to the meeting.”

As quickly as this call worked him up, Takashi’s energy drops. A longer clump of hair wilts over his brow, skirting the edge of his eye. “Yeah, okay, I guess I’d like that. It’d be okay, I mean.…” Listening to Ryou, Takashi curls in on himself more tightly. He seems like he’s two seconds away from flopping over. “I’ll text you when I’m leaving and meet you at Yvonne’s.… Yes. I promise not to take it out on myself, I… I love you too, Ryou.”

Heaving a deep, shivery breath, Takashi ends the call and pockets his phone. He lets out a sigh that claws its way out of him. He drops his forehead onto his knee, eyes open and staring at a void inside his denim, pale and tired as if he’s just fought a three-day battle without resting. For all Mitch knows, that’s how every day of the poor kid’s life feels. Having it out with Ryou over every little thing, fighting him for half-an-inch of freedom after what he left behind in Chicago, cannot be doing Takashi any favors.

Trying to steady his own nerves, Mitch watches the kid for any sudden movements, any subtle signs about how to approach this situation. Too many of the guys he’s met at the VA, they refuse to understand things like this. They look at fatigue like Takashi’s—the sort of exhaustion that comes from nowhere and weighs down everything—and because Takashi has never ventured into combat, they refuse to acknowledge his pain. They’d blame it on him, same as WW2 vets blamed the guys who fought in Vietnam for their own suffering, and how the guys who fought in Vietnam did the same to all the young people who’ve been in the Middle East.

Well, Dr. Mitchell Iverson might’ve gotten his PhD in physics—but he doesn’t need special training to be here for someone who needs help.

Delicately, as if handling Ma’s irreplaceable porcelain heirlooms, Mitch curls a hand around the kid’s shoulder. He stifles an objection to how much he can feel of Takashi’s bones. Mitch doesn’t understand eating disorders any more than Ryou does. David and Neely have dealt with those troubles personally, they’ve advised the group to avoid talking about anyone’s bodies (especially someone who might be dealing with their own eating disorder), and that’s everything Mitch knows. Lips pursed, he waits for Takashi to push him off, the way he argues with even Ryou’s attempts at helping him.

Yet, after mulling it over, Takashi nods. “You said your name is Mitch?”

“Not to most people, but…” Mitch gives him a small smile. “I’m ‘Mitch’ in here, so I’m ‘Mitch’ to you. If you want.”

“Shiro—I’m, that’s my? I’m ‘Shiro’ to pretty much everyone, I mean.”

As a silence settles between them, Mitch pats Takashi’s— _Shiro’s_ —back. Around them, other folding chairs scrape the hardwood floors as more members of the group start filtering in.

No one comes to bug them, though. The closest that they get is Jeri, and she doesn’t interject. When she takes a seat, holding a styrofoam cup of decaf and shaking out her rich brown curls, she catches Mitch’s eye and arches a brow. Fair enough, on her part; even at the post-meeting coffee-talk sessions, Mitch sticks to small groups, rather than talking to most people, solo. He’s never had anybody ask him to be a sponsor, and it’s likely that he never will.

Regardless, Mitch focuses on Shiro, keeps his hand between the kid’s sharp shoulder-blades. Even though he already knows the answer, Mitch prods with, “So, what was all that? The call you had to take?”

“My brother. Being overprotective again.” Shiro hugs his shin like he’s swept up in a storm and clinging to a piece of driftwood. “Not that I don’t get it. Where he’s coming from, right? It makes perfect sense.”

“It might. Then again, it might not. Hard for someone to judge, coming from the outside.”

Forcing himself to breathe deeply, Shiro nuzzles at his thigh. “I just? Like I said, I’ve given him reason to worry. That’s fair. Plus, I know I haven’t been out of rehab for that long. And I’ve given him reason not to trust me. And it could be so much worse. So, I shouldn’t be upset at him for caring.”

“Just because he has a fair point—several fair points, even—that doesn’t mean you’ve got to pretend, like… And the fact that things _could_ be worse doesn’t…” Herein lies Mitch’s problem with one-on-one conversations: ten years sober, and he still trips up over spitting out the most basic advice. Yet, he rubs gingerly at Shiro’s spine, trying not to dwell on how easily he could count the boy’s vertebra. “You’re allowed to feel however you do. No matter what he’s doing or how much he cares about you.”

“That’s what my therapist says. And the shrinks in rehab.”

“Maybe they’re saying it because they have a point.”

“Oh, yeah, I don’t doubt it. Or anyway, not really?”

“‘Not really’?” Mitch arches his eyebrow and purses his lips.

“Yeah. Not really.” Rather than staying buried in his leg, Shiro decides to put his chin up on his knee again. Borderline glassy-eyed, he stares straight ahead without seeing any of the others taking seats, without seeing Miranda at the podium. He balls one trembling hand up in his jeans. “‘You’re allowed to feel however you do’ is great in theory? It sounds nice and all. But it doesn’t always work out so well. Sometimes, it can drag you right to Hell. Sometimes, you just…”

When Shiro trails off, it’s a miracle that Mitch keeps his face neutral. With as little as he knows about the kid’s situation, Mitch shouldn’t want to intervene, the way he does. He shouldn’t judge the facts until he has more of them to look at. Yet, that urge to deck someone surges back in full effect, hot and hard, raging up a storm as Shiro looks more and more like he could break down sobbing at any moment.

Rubbing up and down the boy’s spine, Mitch prods, “Just one man’s take, son? But it sounds like you’re talking about something more specific.”

“Yeah, I am.” That admission smacks into Mitch like a cold shower—but Shiro only shrugs as if he says things like this every day. “Not worth dwelling on, though. I mean, I kinda can’t help that, not with how badly I messed up? But it’s old news. A more specific something that nobody can fix. Anyway, Ryou—my brother, I mean—he’s probably right that I should give up and leave it all behind me, in Chicago, where it belongs.”

 _It can’t be_ ** _that_** _hopeless,_ Mitch wants to point out, despite the group’s rule about not dismissing each other’s feelings.

Around them, though, people occupy most of the folding chairs. Now that Miranda has the mic working, she glances around the group, braces herself on the podium, idly drumming her fingers along the edges. She always looks like a queen, when she does this, albeit a queen who favors loud patterns on her billowing, brightly colored blouses. She doesn’t call anyone to attention just yet, but that won’t be long. Mitch can tell that even before his phone declares that it’s already nineteen-hundred hours—time to get going on the meeting, as soon as Miranda’s ready to make everyone shut up and listen.

Since she’s still waiting, though, Mitch nudges at Shiro’s shoulder. “I don’t usually say this, but how about we swap phone numbers? I’d bet your brother loves you. He’s probably trying his best. But sometimes?” Sighing at the kid’s confusion, Mitch tries to give him a little smile. “Sometimes, you need to talk to someone else who’s been there.”

“Meaning another addict?”

“Exactly. Who better to help you with, you know, addict stuff than another addict.”

Reaching for his pocket, Shiro points out, “But you literally just met me? I haven’t even introduced myself to the group?”

“I’ve got a good feeling about you, though. And I want to help you, if you’ll let me.” Mitch taps over to his text messages. “So, where should I send this off to?”

  


* * *

  


As much as Mitch liked holding on to Bennett, they eventually separated—but they didn’t leave each other’s side. Instead, they dove right back into the game, picking up where they’d left off before things had taken such a turn for the upsetting. True, the game had led them astray before but it didn’t need to repeat that process. They could’ve easily found a way to stay on the right side of things.

Trading queries, Mitch learned that Bennett was an only child and a cat person. His coworkers at the _Star-News_ had banned him from using retractable ballpoint pens because he could never resist the urge to click them for two hours straight. As a kid, he’d wanted to be a game show host. He’d had to leave the Rez to visit his mother’s family, who were Mexican instead of Jicarilla Apache, and every time, he’d looked forward to watching _The Match Game_ with his Tía Ana. He’d been all of eight or nine when Mitch had been enlisting in the Army. Neither of them admitted to these facts directly, but when Bennett admitted that he’d turn twenty-six at his next birthday, Mitch couldn’t help doing the mental math.

He also couldn’t help laughing at all of Bennett’s jokes—even when he hadn’t made any. Listening to him talk, Mitch couldn’t stop himself from smiling, leaning in close to Bennett and hanging on every word like he could die if he missed any single one of Bennett’s syllables. Time didn’t matter. The rest of the world didn’t matter. Keeping track of drinks only mattered when the bartender asked if they really wanted to have a fifth round, which of course they did. As long as Bennett kept talking and lighting up the room with his smile, Mitch wanted to do anything he could get away with. Anything to keep Bennett sharing himself with Mitch.

In turn, Mitch revealed that he _had_ been with other guys before, actually. His abstinence from gay bars hadn’t kept him from finding other men of similar bents. Once he’d found them, things had proceeded in all manner of ways that fell under the definition of, “Screwing around.” Those encounters had been scattered, few and far between, and Mitch had not always played safe with condoms. He remained HIV-negative, though. He didn’t feel particularly close to either of his parents, regardless of whether or not they were alive. He’d never wanted to let his Pop down and he wanted to make Ma happy inasmuch as she was ever truly happy, but he’d never known them, really. He couldn’t think of a favorite movie. His musical guilty pleasure was Bonnie Tyler, despite his initial attempt at claiming it was ABBA.

Once he’d taken his drink for that one, Bennett drawled, “You had better? God, Mitch, you’d better…” He snorted. “You’d better mean that ABBA’s not a guilty pleasure ‘cause you just? Don’t feel guilty about them? And just, you know…” Smirking like a kitten with a bowl of cream, he batted the back of his hand at Mitch’s arm. It felt like getting hit with a ribbon. “You let yourself _enjoy_ ABBA, right?”

Mitch snickered, leaning on his elbows so everything might feel slightly more stable, even though the world hadn’t gotten nearly as wobbly as it could’ve done. “From the sound of it, Pretty Boy? I don’t enjoy them anywhere as much as you do.”

As if offended, Bennett gasped—but he slouched onto Mitch’s shoulder before Mitch could read too much into anything. Dimly, he wondered where the worry had gone, the constant sense of nerves that found a way to torment Mitch, no matter how many drinks he ever had. The gin reeked on Bennett’s breath, but in the best of all possible ways. Nuzzling at Mitch’s cheek without a care who saw them or what they thought, Bennett made dread and distress seem like such distant things, like other people’s memories that Mitch had absorbed from hearing about them so often, despite never having experienced such things himself. A lifetime of fear faded away, all because of Bennett Martínez.

More specifically, all because he teased his lightly chapped lips along the curve of Mitch’s neck, singing so softly that only Mitch could hear, _“‘Cause everything is new—”_

“Mmm, I doubt that pretty well—”

_“And everything is_ ** _you_** _—”_

“Peter the pianist sure ain’t me—”

He wasn’t singing ABBA, either. Unlike Bennett, Peter the Pianist had returned from a break and started droning, _“Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger. You may see a stranger across a crowded room…”_

Yet, breath hot and longing on Mitch’s skin, Bennett leaned in, right up by his ear, and insisted, _“And all I’ve learned has overturned. What can I do?”_

“You could kiss me on the mouth,” Mitch told him with a chuckle. “Or keep singing. Whatever makes you happy.”

 _“Doooon’t go wasting your emooootion.”_ Slinging an arm around Mitch’s shoulders, Bennett kept himself stable enough to nose at Mitch’s cheek. _“Laaaaay all your loooove on meeeee.”_

“Maybe not ‘til the third date, Pretty Boy—”

_“Don’t go sharing your devoooootion—”_

“Wouldn’t dream of doing that. Definitely not to you—”

_“Laaaaay all your looooooove on meeeee…”_

“You don’t want that right now, Ben. You really don’t.”

“‘s _Bennett_ , Handsome. Not, ‘Ben’—”

“Duly noted—”

“ _Ben_ is such an old white man name, like Spider-Man’s uncle—”

“Won’t call you that again, then—”

“An’ anyway?” He kissed Mitch’s cheek. “I might do—y’know, I mean— _te quiero_ , so, like—I _might_ want you to, and then?” Laughing at nothing in particular, Bennett kissed at Mitch’s neck. “ _Laaaaay all your loooove on meeeee_ …”

“Bennett, please.” As if this would magically make his point more obvious, Mitch shook his head. “You really don’t wanna know what’s ever happened to anybody I slept with on the first date.”

“Noooo, you’re _right_. I _don’t_ wanna know that.” His pensive hum didn’t sound like the sort of agreement that Mitch wanted—but Bennett kissed the pulse point on Mitch’s neck and made his brain short-circuit. “What I wanna know is… Where’d you ever get the idea that Davey’s had naked go-go boys in cages? ‘Cause I think somebody _lied_ to you.”

“How could anybody lie to me? I saw an ad in some local magazine, that’s all.”

“Hey. _Hey_.” Bennett bumped his forehead at Mitch’s templed. “‘s my turn to ask questions, right?”

“Yeah, that’s fair enough—”

“So, where’d that dumb idea even come from, then? Your naked, dancing go-go boys and bathhouse sex idea.” Sighing damn near indecently, Bennett squeezed at Mitch’s bicep. “ _Además_ —fuck, no, God—just?” He gave Mitch a tighter squeeze and nipped his earlobe. “I hope somebody’s told you lately? You have _really_ nice arms. ‘Cause you _do_ , madre de Dios, Mitch, you really do.”

“Mmm, anyway.” Downing the rest of his double-whiskey, Mitch hoped that Bennett wouldn’t call out the fact that he was trying to push them along without acknowledging that compliment. “None of my go-go boys idea came from anything about Davey’s—”

“Knew it—”

“Most of them, the ideas? They sorta came from straight people—”

“ _I knew it_ —”

“The Hell—you _know_ you didn’t know sam hecking _anything_ , Pretty Boy—”

“Straight people don’t know any-goddamn-thing about any fucking shit, I swear—”

“Oh, come on—”

“Least not about _us_ or what we _do_ or anything—”

“All right, but not all of my ideas came from them!”

Like a twitchy bunny, Bennett wrinkled his nose. “So, _dónde escuchabas_ —no, I mean, they? Your ideas? They came from _where_?”

“Maybe the same place as your idea to use _tu_ for a guy you just met.” Mitch smirked. “Pretty sure most people would go for _usted_.”

“But most people _son pendejos_.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“ _Mitch_.” With that tone, he must’ve been pouting. “Where’d you get your _ideas_ , Handsome?”

Mitch shrugged. “Some novel I read a while back. It wasn’t very good.”

“What was it called?”

“Mmm, I’d rather not repeat the title—”

“Why not, then?”

“Am I getting interviewed. Pretty sure I only agreed to play a game.”

Nosing at Mitch’s neck, Bennett groaned against his skin. “But I just wanna _know_ …”

“You’re so drunk.”

“Why aren’t _you_?” A kiss smacked into Mitch’s pulse point, then Bennett added, “Tell me the name of that book? Please?”

“I told you, I don’t wanna repeat the title.” Lifting his glass to his lips, Mitch expected that familiar mix of sweet cola and heavy whisky. He squinted when he found the drink gone and the cup empty, and as he set the glass down, he didn’t hold back on rolling his eyes. “Anyway, you probably wouldn’t like it. It’s not a very nice title. Dunno how it ever got published, because it’s not a very nice _book_ either. But with a title like it’s got, especially?”

“Did someone called Larry Kramer write it?” Confirmation of that suspicion made Bennett slump onto Mitch like he couldn’t sit up on his own. “That fucking guy—I _hate_ that fucking guy—you’ve _got_ to read something better than his self-loathing, anti-queer drivel, okay? Promise me you’ll get something better? Something by a gay guy who can actually write?”

“Show me your articles and I’ll read every single one.”

That got Bennett to snort—but rather than give Mitch an answer, he pulled the bartender over. “Ricky, I need a pen. And two napkins.”

In hand so neat, Mitch would’ve sworn this boy was sober, Bennett jotted down, _“Holleran, Dancer from the Dance. Mann, A Death In Venice. Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room. Forster, Maurice”_ and a phone number. Once he’d doodled three messy stars after the third title—apparently, a way of saying that he considered the book essential reading—he shoved the pen at Mitch and asked for his number in return. So far in Pasadena, Mitch hadn’t found a reason to give that out to anyone except his boss, but he scribbled it down for Bennett without a second thought. He only paused to write his name on the napkin, too.

“Just in case you forget me when you sober up,” he explained.

Bennett scoffed, giving Mitch a lopsided smile. “I don’t see that happening. But if you’re really worried? Then you could call me when you get home tonight. Leave a message on the machine. That way, I’ll definitely remember.”

Maybe Mitch should’ve had a witty comeback for him. Maybe he should’ve at least confirmed that Bennett had no need to worry because he’d definitely get a call. Maybe Mitch should’ve had a couple fewer rounds, if he cared so much about giving Bennett his best—but he couldn’t un-drink all the evening’s liquor.

As a knobby, white hand dropped onto Bennett’s shoulder, Mitch also couldn’t remember how to make his voice do anything. Instead, he blinked silently at the man who Bennett had pointed out before. Stephen, if Mitch recalled. The one who’d lost his partner. Despite having recently gone through the worst Hell, Stephen gave Mitch a small, kind smile, then turned it on Bennett.

“I think we might want to get you home, dear boy.” Eyeing the empty glasses that hadn’t yet been taken away, he huffed. “And that you’ve had quite enough. We _do_ work, in the morning.”

Although Bennett nodded and sat up, he slouched as if getting reprimanded by his father. “Can’t I say goodnight, first?”

Stephen supposed that Bennett could, which made Bennett straighten out his posture. He swiveled around slowly, turning on his seat like he was terrified of falling off. Not a bad thing to worry about, considering how many rounds they’d put away. Once they were facing each other, Bennett took in a long drink of Mitch’s physique (though how much he could see, through the drink and the dim lighting, Mitch couldn’t guess), then focused on Mitch’s face. Blinking at him, Bennett looked so young. Almost innocent. Like he’d gotten himself lost in terra incognita, or maybe during a Christmas sale at the mall.

Eyes gleaming earnestly, he whispered, “You _will_ call me, right?”

Mitch didn’t need to think; he simply nodded. “First thing when I get back—”

With a kiss, Bennett smothered anything else Mitch could’ve said—and he quickly stifled anything else he’d thought. All that mattered now was the way that contact sent an electric crackle through Mitch’s nerves. A yearning fire twisted in his stomach, its meaning clearer than anything. All he wanted in the world was to keep kissing Bennett back.

His mouth was warm and wet, his lips open and eager. Leaning onto Mitch’s seat, brushing their legs against each other, Bennett sighed like this was the only thing he wanted. Just so his teetering steps wouldn’t send him crashing to the floor, Mitch curled one arm around Bennett’s back, slithered it under his jacket to rest on his slender waist. Long fingers found Mitch’s cheek, reaching out for it so carefully, Mitch could barely feel them. Especially not with Bennett’s lips fumbling on his own like he knew what he was doing when he wasn’t drunk, and grasping desperately for more, more, more.

A deep breath, then Mitch tilted his head down further, intent on giving Bennett what he wanted. But as quickly as he’d crashed into Mitch, Bennett tugged away, whispering a litany of apologies about work and being a responsible adult by day.

“But thanks for talking, Handsome.” God, Bennett’s smile would’ve put the sun to shame. “Can’t wait to save the message that you leave me.”

“You too,” Mitch said thickly, then cringed because no, that wasn’t right. The words weren’t right, weren’t what he wanted. “I mean? Can’t wait either, or—Like, I really just want—God, you know what I mean, don’t you, Pretty Boy?”

He probably didn’t, but as least Bennett giggled as Stephen shepherded him away from the stool and toward the door. At least, as Mitch flagged down the bartender so he could fess up for the tab, his mouth tingled with the residual sensation of Bennett sucking on his tongue. Waiting for his bank card to go through, Mitch blinked down at the napkin that Bennett had left him with, the list of books he’d need to find somehow and read, the phone number with his name scrawled next to it and so much promise hidden in the lines.

Mitch folded the napkin into pristine quarters and placed it in his wallet with his cash and that copy of his birth certificate. When he stepped out of the bar, he took a deep breath of the cool, smoky air—but all the way back to his apartment, no matter how pungent the city felt around him, Mitch couldn’t shake that feeling like sparks that could start a forest fire. Not even his two-shot nightcap dulled the truth: Mitch had the kiss of Bennett Martínez on his lips, and everything somehow felt new.

  


* * *

  


Old Sally greets Mitch as soon as he gets back from his meeting, bounding down the hallway and bumping into his legs before he’s even gotten his jacket off. A few pats on the head satisfy her, though ruffling her short, soft fur doesn’t keep her from drooling on the little rug by the front door, and she gives up the whine that says she objects to how long she had to go without one of Her Persons. Reassuring her that she’s a good dog, Mitch coos about how much he loves her and how much he missed her. This does the trick, getting her to move so he can remove his shoes. It’s how things always go between them, and something about the familiar process really helps the townhouse feel like a home.

While Sally sits and impatiently shakes out her floppy ears, a different fluff-ball bounds down the staircase—Behemoth, the chunky, long-haired black cat who Bennett found at the ASPCA two years ago. Despite his size, Behemoth moves fast, and before Mitch knows which way is up, he’s got Behemoth rubbing all over his calves and meowing. As usual, the feline drama king isn’t satisfied by simply getting a couple scratches behind the ears and a gentle stroke down his spine; he demands enough attention for three cats, when he’s in the mood for it.

Too bad for Behemoth, though, because Mitch wants to see someone else in this house. Following the lights down the corridor, he heads for the kitchen and lets the fur-children tag along as they will.

Predictably, the last of this house’s pets, a tortoiseshell cat with short, wiry fur, waits for them in the kitchen. Curled up on one of the chairs around the table, Kilgore Trout lifts her head and yawns. She blinks at Mitch as if she can’t tell what she wants to make of him right now, but she doesn’t consider him for long. Sally goes to lie down on her oversized pillow, sitting by the threshold to the living room, and preternaturally graceful, Behemoth hops up on the seat with Kilgore. Getting both of them comfortable takes some finagling, but the cats entangle themselves in each other and start trading licks as if it’s nothing.

Good thing the pets are all content right now, because once Mitch turns toward the stove and sink, he only has eyes for his husband. Although Mitch lingers for what feels like ages, Bennett doesn’t look up from his work of rinsing out his favorite teakettle. His black plastic-framed glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and he swishes out his messy ponytail as if he hasn’t noticed anything.

Granted, he probably has—after all, Bennett wouldn’t have made it so big as a reporter if he couldn’t spot important details as they crop up around him—but for a long moment, Mitch imagines that he’s subtle and drinks in the sight of his husband. God, he’s gorgeous, even swimming in one of Mitch’s old t-shirts and concealing his long, toned legs in flannel pajama bottoms with a gray, black, and red plaid pattern.

As Mitch sneaks toward his man, he catches Bennett singing under his breath, _“V! is very, very! extra-ordinary. E! is even more than anyone that you adore—”_

 _“And love is all that I can give to you.”_ Chuckling softly, Mitch sidles up behind Bennett, nudges his belly against Bennett’s back. Hugging Bennett around his slender waist, Mitch ghosts his lips over his husband’s warm skin and the top of his spine. _“Love is more than just a game for two.”_

_“Two in love can make it—”_

_“Take my heart and please don’t break it—”_

_“Love,”_ they sing in unison, _“was made for me and you.”_

Mitch kisses the curve of Bennett’s neck and smiles, holding him close and basking in this strange, wonderful feeling like everything is damn near close to perfect. Vaguely, Mitch wishes that he had something to say for himself—literally anything to put words on the pinkish-feeling warmth that floods his chest when he’s close to Bennett like this, even going on twenty-five years with each other—but all that Mitch has is a warm embrace and the man he loves in his arms.

Which is more than good enough in a general sense. It can’t replace the witty, romantic, ostensibly off-the-cuff line that Mitch doesn’t have ready for Bennett, but if he minds not getting that kind of repartee right now, then he doesn’t say so. As he fills up the kettle, Bennett reclines against Mitch’s front, lazily squirming around like the cats before they find the exact right spot for lounging on the sofa.

Nuzzling at Bennett’s temple, Mitch feels like he’s had his tongue shot full of Novocaine and cemented to the roof of his mouth with peanut butter—but maybe this moment doesn’t need to be any more or less than what it is. Maybe this is just one of the universe’s simple gifts, the kind of experience Mitch never imagined that he’d have, not until this beautiful spitfire crashed into his life and made a believer out of him.

“Someone’s in a mood,” Bennett huffs affectionately, shutting off the faucet. By way of asking Mitch to let them head toward the stove, Bennett rubs their shoulders together. “I thought it was starting to get late for you.”

“Sorry, _Corazón_. I stayed longer than I meant for coffee-talk.”

“No apologies needed. It wasn’t late enough for me to worry about you, yet. D’you want the bags in here now, or d’you want to put them in later?”

Mitch lets go of Bennett’s waist so he can grab the jar of tea bags off the counter. Much as he’d rather not exercise a semblance of patience, he waits for Bennett to get the electric stove turned on and the kettle heating up. Then, leaning against the counters’ corner, Mitch tugs his husband close again, drops his arm back to Bennett’s waist, and nudges their foreheads together, because really, what else do you do with a beautiful, brilliant husband? What’s the point of being in love if you don’t want to show it?

“ _Should_ I have been worried about you, though?” Snaking his own arms around Mitch’s shoulders, Bennett drops the playful smirk. Over the rims of his glasses, he gives Mitch a _Look_ , one that suggests he’s in no mood to mess around about this question.

Mitch shakes his head and pushes Bennett’s glasses up for him. “Stayed late for someone else’s sake—”

“Oh, no. Is Neely in some kind of trouble again?”

“That’s a negative.”

Bennett furrows his brow. “…Marcus? He’s been having a rough time of things lately—or, that’s how it’s seemed when we’ve talked about organizing that collaboration with his art group kids and my writing group kids?”

“You know I’m not gonna tell you all the lurid details like that—”

“I just want to know if I should ask more specific questions of him than I have lately.”

“Not that I know of, but? Never hurts to remind him you care.”

“Mmm, true.” With a soft sigh, Bennett nestles himself along Mitch’s chest and stomach, like when the cats decide to sprawl all over their humans’ bed as if they own it. Tonguing at his lips, Bennett gets the serious, scrunched up, contemplative expression that most often accompanies him arguing with himself about word-choice or getting frustrated with a game of _Tetris_. “I’m drawing a complete blank, Handsome. Not that you—I _know_ you care about the folks at group, and about fostering the group’s sense of community, but…”

“Yeah, I don’t usually stay _this_ late, not for most of ‘em.” Struggling to keep his expression more or less neutral—and failing to hold back a smile—Mitch tucks a loose clump of hair behind Bennett’s ear. “We had a new kid show up tonight. Guess who I met.”

“Robert Downey, Jr.?”

“…Really? That’s your guess?”

“Stranger things have happened, Handsome. He could be in the closet, for all we know.” Bennett shrugs at Mitch’s point that Downey Jr. also lives in California, then tries again: “I don’t know, Lindsay Lohan? She’s bisexual, so she’d belong there…”

“It wasn’t someone famous. Or anyway, not _that_ level of famous.”

“I’ve got no idea, Mitch. Who’d you meet at group tonight?”

“Takashi—well, apparently, he prefers, ‘Shiro,’ but you’d know him as Takashi.” As he brushes his hand up and down Bennett’s side, Mitch gets an impulse to palm his husband’s backside. Not until they get through this conversation, though; it’s bad form to get that handsy in the middle of a serious talk. “Ryou’s brother, the one who writes music and puts his songs on Youtube—”

“The one who lives in Chicago and literally just got out of rehab?” Bennett’s nose twitches like a bunny’s, and it takes superhuman restraint not to kiss him on it right this very second. “Did they change the, ‘No major life changes for at least a year’ suggestion? Or did his place not go into that?”

“He mentioned hearing something like that, but I don’t know the whole story of why he moved. What I do know mostly comes from Ryou. But even if I _did_ know everything Shiro could say about this—”

“Confidentiality’s in place unless he tells you it’s all right to talk to me.”

“Exactly.” Huffing, Mitch rests his forehead against Bennett’s. “From what I understand and think I’m allowed to mention? Staying in Chicago wasn’t a real option. Too dangerous. For a few different reasons.”

Bennett hums pensively. “Sounds like Takashi’s gotten himself into some interesting trouble.”

“Life sure hasn’t taken it easy on him lately, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Pretend I’m making terribly clever observation about how life doesn’t much enjoy giving anyone a break. Or a reward. Or anything like that.”

“Point taken, but it’s equally odd for life to go at someone as hard as Shiro’s had it, lately.” Although he lets his shoulders sag, Mitch takes care to keep his hand on Bennett’s hip and not his ass. They’re having a serious discussion, therefore, he’s going to behave himself. “I mean, from what Ryou’s said about how bad the situation’s been, I was prepared for the kid to be a mess, if he ever came to a meeting? But I wasn’t expecting Shiro to be, like…”

“In such a bad way, it’s a miracle that he made it to the meeting in the first place?”

“Sounds about right. Or something like that.”

“Mmm. At least he came to a good place.” Nosing at Mitch’s cheek, Bennett says, “I shudder to think of how much unnecessary damage could have been wrought if he’d wound up at a group that _only_ promotes the Twelve-Step model.”

Even suggesting that makes Mitch grimace. “Hearing he’s got no choice in anything sounds like the exact last thing that Shiro needs.”

“Based on… what he’s shared with you so far? Something that his brother’s told you? Details that the group’s confidentiality policy prohibits you from divulging, not even to your husband?”

“Some people might say _especially_ not to my husband. Considering I married a member of the Fourth Estate.”

“Well, some people _son pendejos_. And they might mistake me for some garbage gossip columnist.”

“Only at their own peril, _Corazón_.” Before he can think to stop himself, Mitch kisses Bennett’s cheek. “Anyway, let’s just say I’ve got a feeling about Takashi—Shiro, I mean. And my feeling is that he’s been through the wringer in ways that, yeah, make even showing up to the meeting a serious accomplishment. Never mind sharing what little of himself and his story that he opened up about.”

Bennett’s pouty face suggests that he’s got plenty on his mind about that idea—best to nip them in the bud. “You know why Ryou hasn’t had to worry about Shiro getting into too much trouble, _Corazón_? Because the kid’s been so run down that he mostly only leaves the apartment for therapy, doctor visits, after-dinner walks, and now, meetings at the center—”

“Which is its own worrisome depressive pattern, if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Basically. And he looks like a nice breeze might knock him over, so even if he weren’t depressed, I don’t know _where_ he’d get the extra energy for more than basic repair and maintenance like that.” Mitch slouches, trying not to imagine too many worst possible scenarios that Shiro might have come from or too many traumas that might have worn the boy down so badly. “Bet you anything, he’s gonna be a tough nut to crack. But I’ve got a couple strong feelings off of him so far, and…”

Mitch lets out a sigh and quirks his shoulders. “He trusted me enough to take my number, so? I want to be there for him.”

For all Bennett nods, his next nuzzle at Mitch feels a few shades more protective than is necessary—at least, it does until he snickers. “I’ve gotta mark this down in my journal, Handsome. Honestly, never thought I’d see the day—”

“What the sam heck day are you talking about, Pretty Boy?”

“You know,” Bennett almost-teases, even though he should know that Mitch is in the dark here. “The day someone at group actually makes you feel protective. Instead of simply making you identify with them.”

“That’s—I think that’s jumping the gun a little. All I’m saying is I want to help the kid.”

“Mmm, and all I’m saying, Mitch?” Bennett’s eyes light up like he’s got a bad idea that will likely provide a lot of fun. “Is that if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound practically paternal.”

As though this settles everything, Bennett smirks and pokes the tip of Mitch’s nose. While Mitch’s cheeks flush hot, exactly how his husband no doubt wanted, the kettle whistles and kicks Bennett into action. He rattles around the cupboards, then pours Mitch’s tea into their one mug with the old promotional photo of Captain Kirk and Mister Spock. Humming the same Nat King Cole song as before, Bennett helps himself to one of the mugs with the wrap-around prints of the rainbow pride flags.

All the while, minx that he can be when he sets his mind to it, Bennett puts on that smile like he knows something that Mitch doesn’t and wants to sing-song about it to anyone who’ll listen. Not even a pointedly arched brow or a roll of the eye dissuades him. If anything, Mitch only makes his husband bolder.

Heading for the living room sofa, Mitch insists, “I’m not talking about adopting him, _Corazón._ ”

“Oh, obviously. Of course not.”

Which would sound more sincere if Bennett could remotely restrain his grinning. As he tucks himself in against Mitch’s side, though, Bennett remains the very picture of mischief. Fondly, Mitch can’t help thinking, _You can take the troublemaker out of California…_

“Y’know,” he says, “I would’ve thought you’d be happier about me making a new friend. Even if he’s in a bad place right now and only twenty-three.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Handsome: I’m ecstatic about that.” A sip of the tea, then Bennett adds, “And I solemnly swear not to say, ‘I told you so’ when you go to file your new son’s adoption papers.”

In the back of his mind, in the part that loves these sarcastic back-and-forths that he and his man get into, Mitch considers quipping about, _“Why’d I marry you again?”_ —but the jab dies in his throat when Bennett nuzzles at his shoulder.

Worming an arm around Bennett’s waist, Mitch drops a kiss to his husband’s forehead. “You know what they say, _Corazón_ ,” he whispers. “If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs featured or referenced in this chapter are: “It’s De-Lovely” (Cole Porter, though Mitch attributes it to Ella Fitzgerald because he knows her recordings best); “All That Jazz” (from _Chicago_ ); “Cabaret” (from _Cabaret_ ); “Maybe They’re Really Magic” (from _Into the Woods_ ); “You Go To My Head” (J. Fred Coots & Haven Gillespie; personally, I’m most partial to Billie Holiday’s version); “Careless Whisper” (George Michael, and low-key leitmotif for this entire series); “If Ever I Would Leave You” (from _Camelot_ ); “As Time Goes By” (from _Casablanca_ ); “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye” (Cole Porter); “Paint It Black” (The Rolling Stones); “Lay All Your Love On Me” (ABBA); “Some Enchanted Evening” (from _South Pacific_ ); and “L-O-V-E” (Milt Gabler and Bert Kaempfert, most popularly sung by Nat King Cole).

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I’m also on Tumblr ( **[amorremanet](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com/)** ), Pillowfort ( **[amorremanet](https://www.pillowfort.io/amorremanet)** ), Dreamwidth ( **[amor_remanet](http://amor-remanet.dreamwidth.org/)** ), and Discord ( **amorremanet#5500** ), and I love talking about Shiro and how pretty he is when he cries.


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